Into the Woods
by Spamberguesa
Summary: A modern, Hobbit variation on the Scottish ballad "Tam Lin", and an AU of the Ettelëaverse. Lorna, newly come to her sister's little town, hears far too many stories of (and warnings about) the forest at the edge of her granny's land. Naturally, she has to investigate, but gets more than she bargained for in what - and who - she finds there.
1. Iontas

A modern re-telling of _Tam Lin_ , with Lorna as Janet and Thranduil as the titular Tam. AU of the Ettelëaverse.

I recently ran across the Scottish ballad _Tam Lin_ , and of course my weird brain had to decide that would be a great AU of my already AU. Janet struck me as a very Lorna type of character, which naturally meant Thranduil had to be Tam Lin.

This was supposed to be a one-shot, but of course it ballooned, like every other goddamn thing I write. You don't need to have read any of the other _Ettelëa_ stories for this to make sense.

* * *

The first time Gran warned Lorna about the woods, it was five days after Liam's funeral, and Lorna barely even heard her.

"Right, Gran," she said dutifully, staring at the smooth, bleached wood of a kitchen table far older than she was. At twenty-eight, she'd only met her Gran a week ago, but the old lady treated her as though they'd known one another all their lives - it was a refreshing change from Mairead, who tiptoed around her, as though afraid she might shatter at any given moment. But then, she hadn't known her sister any longer than her granny.

"I mean it, allanah," Gran said, pointing a ladle at her. Though she was as small and wiry as her granddaughter, Lorna imagined she could do some fierce damage with it. "Lord Thranduil lives in those woods, and he'll brook no trespassers."

"Who in bloody hell is Lord Thranduil?" This was Ireland, not flipping England. Mairead had assured her that Gran still had all her marbles, but now Lorna wondered.

"He's one'v the Fair Folk," Gran said, dead serious. "You go that way, you'll come back with child - if you come back at all. No one has in centuries."

Lorna felt the blood drain from her face. "Gran, that's not funny," she said, rising with difficulty and reaching for her crutches. She'd broken her right leg in the accident that cost her both Liam and her unborn child, and the blasted things were yet another reminder. Her dry eyes burned, but she hadn't been able to cry since Liam's funeral, no matter how much she wanted to.

Gran crossed the worn pine floor, surprisingly spry for a woman of ninety-three. "Sure God I'm sorry, allanah," she said, cupping Lorna's face in one callused hand. "I shouldn't've said that. Sit back down now and I'll make you a medicine."

Gran's 'medicine' was tea with a healthy dose of whiskey, which Lorna would gladly stick around for. The doctors had warned her to keep away from alcohol, but she and the bottle were old friends, and she could use all the friends she could get right now.

"The woods're on your land, Gran," she pointed out as she sat. "This Lord Thranduil's the trespasser, isn't he?" Surely her gran couldn't be mad enough to actually _believe_ that.

"Was his land long before it was mine," Gran said, taking the copper kettle off its nail on the wall. "I leave him alone, and he leaves me alone. It's been like that as long as the family's lived here."

Maybe it wasn't madness. Every family needed its ghost stories.

* * *

That night, lying in her narrow bed in what had been Mairead's guest room, Lorna stared out the window at the full moon. She and Liam had lived out of their van for so long that such a soft mattress felt uncomfortably alien, and made sleeping difficult - not that she minded, for when she slept, she dreamt of the accident, over and over, felt the icy water of the Shannon trying to suck her into its depths.

What was she to do with her life now? Mairead seemed to think that eventually she'd settle down to normal, but for most of Lorna's life, 'normal' had been sleeping rough in a warehouse. She'd not even got her Junior Certificate at school, and she'd yet to hold a proper, legal job. She wasn't at all prepared for a world of 'normal'.

Mairead was so very different from the rest of her siblings. Mam had only been seventeen when she'd had her, so Gran had raised her - she'd escaped Lorna's way of life, so they had next to nothing in common. It had come as a shock, if a good one, that she'd so readily opened her home to Lorna, though they'd never met before.

For that alone Lorna would try to adapt to 'normal', though she was enough of a realist to know that she might not succeed. Still, she owed it to Mairead to try.

* * *

The second time Gran spoke of Lord Thranduil was in May - an unseasonably warm and sunny May. Once Lorna's cast was off, she'd taken to wandering the fields, often aimlessly, marveling at all the green. Having grown up in the seedier side of Dublin, she and green were not well acquainted.

Since she hadn't yet got a job, she helped Gran quite a bit - the old lady flatly refused to hire any help, bur family was another matter entirely. They were whitewashing the walls - actual _whitewash_ , not paint - with fresh air and sunshine streaming in through the open windows.

"I hope your ramblings haven't taken you to Lord Thranduil's woods," Grain said, dipping her brush into the pail.

Lorna smiled. There wasn't much that could _make_ her smile, but Gran often managed it. "Of course they haven't, Gran," she said. "I'm not dead or up the yard, am I?"

Gran fixed her with a beady blue eye. "See that you don't. And for God's sake will you keep your hair out of the pail? You ought to pin it up." She touched her own braid, which was wound around her head like a snow-white crown.

Lorna looked at the end of her own braid; sure enough, a good two inches of the black had been soaked in whitewash. Mairead had been after her to cut it for months now, but Lorna wasn't having with it. Both Mam and Liam had loved brushing it, so it was staying past her bum, whether Mairead liked it or not.

"Whitewash is good for it," she said. "Like conditioner."

Gran snorted, but made no comment.

* * *

When Lorna went home that evening - and how strange it was, to have a home - she found Mairead had signed her up for bartending classes.

"Big Jamie says you'll not need a Leaving Certificate for that," she said, handing her the paperwork. "He's forever saying he can't keep staff - they're all off to the city as soon as they've enough work history under their belt."

Lorna was genuinely touched. "Mairead, I've no idea how I'll ever repay you for all'v this."

"You're my sister," Mairead said. "I'll have no talk of payment." She sounded like just like Gran, though they looked nothing alike - Mairead was tall and curvy, with a head of carrot-red, rampantly curly hair, and a face dotted with freckles. Her blue eyes were so like Mam's that sometimes it physically hurt to look at them.

"You'll start on Monday, so try to get some sleep the next few nights," she added.

Well, Lorna could try. She doubted she'd _succeed_ , but she'd try.

* * *

On her first day of training, some idiot tried to grab Lorna's nonexistent bum, and she punched him so hard she dislocated his jaw and knocked out two of his teeth.

Big Jamie - well over six feet tall, with a face as red as his hair - burst out laughing, threw the idiot out onto the street, and clapped her on the back so hard he nearly drove the breath from her.

"You, I like," he said. "Who taught you that?"

"My old gang leader, Shane," she said, unspeakably relieved that _she_ wasn't the one who'd got the boot. "He'd done a stint in the Army - taught us all sorts'v stuff."

"In here, you'll have use for that, from time to time," he said, still laughing. "You'll not abandon me for the big city, will you?"

"Sure God no. I grew up there, and I can't say as I'd recommend it."

"Good. Feel free to do that if any'v the drunks get rowdy."

* * *

Her course took six weeks, and she was surprised to find how much she genuinely enjoyed it. Maybe 'normal' wasn't so bad after all.

Once she'd properly started work, she managed to go a whole week without actually hitting someone - a bit amazing, considering how crowded the place often was in the evening. It was big and dark and smoky, for Big Jamie cheerfully ignored the law against smoking in pubs, and the village constables didn't seem to care.

The counter - dark mahogany, slathered with what had to be an inch of varnish - was too tall for her, so Jamie gave her a little footstool to drag around. Mixing the drinks wasn't exactly _hard_ , but she still felt a real sense of accomplishment when people liked how she'd made them.

But, perhaps inevitably, a fight broke out on the seventh night. Big Jamie wasn't on hand to break it up - it was only her and Michael, a weedy lad of twenty-two, who looked as though a strong breeze would break him in half.

With a sigh, she hopped over the counter, squeezing between two patrons who seemed more interested in their Guinness than the fight. She had no idea who'd started it, or why, but the crash of breaking glass told her someone was smashing mugs.

She didn't recognize either of the men, but they looked like they could be brothers - medium height, with dark hair and eyes the same shade of hazel. One of them had a large, bleeding gash on his forehead, while the other had already acquired a split lip.

"Out, both'v you," she said, grabbing the nearest and shoving him toward the door. Lorna might be little, but she was extremely strong - not just for her size, but for a person in general, and the bloke seemed extremely surprised she could move him so easily.

"I'm not done with him!" the other one roared, and Lorna rolled her eyes.

"I didn't say you were," she said. "I said _out_. Your quarrel's your quarrel, but you'll not have it in here."

He made the extreme tactical mistake of grabbing her braid and yanking on it, hard. He started to say something, but she didn't give him the chance - she released his brother, snatched up the nearest mug, still half full of beer, and brained him with it.

Beer steins were heavy things, and didn't shatter like they did in movies, but it _did_ drop him like a stone, and sprayed everyone within five feet with beer. She was going to have to wash the floor after closing, dammit.

There was a moment of silence, and then the crowd erupted with laughter.

When it finally died down, she said, "All right, you lot, here's the thing: I don't care what you do to each other, as long as you do it _outside_. I've done worse to people before now."

"What, a little thing like you?" someone asked. "What's the worst you can do?"

Lorna looked at him. "Let's just say I've done time for manslaughter, and leave it at that. You can ask Big Jamie - he's got all my records."

Silence followed that. It wasn't normally something she would share, but in this business, it might be a help.

* * *

People were suspiciously well-behaved for the rest of the night, but even when her shift ended, Lorna's veins were still singing with adrenaline.

Rather than walk straight home, she called Mairead to let her know she'd be in late, and went to wander the moonlit fields. She still hadn't got used to how pure and clear the air was, and even though it was well after dark, it was still rather warm.

It had been _ages_ since she'd lamped anyone out like that, and it felt absolutely wonderful. She felt practically giddy as her bare feet whispered over the grass - she'd left her boots at the edge of the field, needing to feel the earth beneath her.

Eventually, her ramblings took her to the edge of the woods. She was honestly surprised that such a large patch of obviously ancient forest hadn't been chopped down ages ago. The trees were mostly beech and oak, so huge they had to be hundreds of years old. Surely they should have been cut down for firewood ages ago.

The canopy was so thick that only tiny shafts of moonlight pierced it, which left the interior unsettlingly dark. _Anything_ could be living in there. It was hardly wilderness, and yet it felt like it should be. One thing was for certain - no _way_ was she going in there at night.

"Do you not get lonely?" she asked, feeling like a bit of an idiot. "I mean, really, you can only take being a hermit for so long, right? Maybe someday I'll fetch my guitar, and sing you a song. Everyone likes music, right?"

Of course she got no answer. Wasn't it odd, how old superstitions could last so lo-

She didn't have a chance to finish the thought, for she caught a pair of the palest eyes she'd ever seen watching her from the darkness. They were _human_ eyes, and yet…not.

Lorna ran like buggery.

* * *

She didn't get much sleep, but by the next morning, she'd convinced herself it had been her imagination - because really, what _else_ could it be?

She went down to the kitchen, which was both crowded and loud - all four of her nieces and nephews were already at the table, inhaling pancakes and talking at cross-purposes. It meant that Lorna didn't have to say anything while she ate her own breakfast, idly wondering how Mairead got her pancakes so very fluffy. She'd been trying to teach Lorna to cook, but Lorna still hadn't even figured out the vagaries of their gas stove, and so far it had been an exercise in futility.

The kids scampered out before she was finished eating, so she actually had a chance to ask, "How come those woods are still standing? Those've got to be some'v the oldest trees in Ireland."

"Nobody'd dare cut down Lord Thranduil's trees," Mairead said, plugging the sink and turning on the tap.

"You can't tell me you believe that." Lorna couldn't imagine sensible, level-headed Mairead buying into superstitions.

"The whole village believes it," her sister said, dead serious. "Stay away from those woods, Lorna. I mean it."

Lorna stared at her. Mairead didn't seem to be joking at all. "And how does anyone know he's there?" she asked. "Popped up and rung the bell, have they?"

"People go in, from time to time, looking for him," Mairead said. "None'v them have ever come out. You can't understand, not being born here."

"I guess not," Lorna muttered. _Weird._

* * *

The next few days, she asked about it at work, always questioning why the woods were still sanding, and discovered Mairead was right: _everybody_ believed it. Even Big Jamie, who didn't look the sort to have any imagination at all, set down the mug he was wiping.

"No doubt you think we're all cracked," he said seriously, "being from the city and all, but it's true. Nobody goes near that place."

" _I_ did," she said, "and I'm fine."

He paled. He actually _paled_. "You shouldn't have done that," he said. "Don't go back. Just _don't_. If he's seen you…."

"If he's seen me, _what_?" she asked, both amused and a little creeped out. "I didn't go _in_. He can't say I've trespassed, because I haven't."

"They say he walks outside the forest at night," Big Jamie said, and actually bloody _crossed himself_. Jesus, was it the Slender Man they were talking about here? "He might come looking for you."

Lorna snorted. "He can look all he likes. I'll choke him out with my braid." She'd actually done that once, so she knew it was possible.

Big Jamie just shook his head, and she decided she'd head out to those bloody woods her next day off, and prove to everyone that they really _were_ cracked.

* * *

Monday morning, she cadged Mairead's digital camera, packed herself a lunch, and headed off into the sunshine. The whole summer had been ridiculously warm - for the first time in history, they were facing a water-shortage, which boggled her. She hadn't thought that could be _possible_ in Ireland.

At least it made her walk pleasant. She'd head into the forest, snap some pictures, and be home in time for dinner. She just hoped there weren't any vicious animals, which was the only _real_ reason she could think of for going in and never coming out - assuming that had ever actually happened, and wasn't just part of the superstition.

The woods were a lot more inviting during daylight. Having spent most of her life in Dublin, she hadn't really seen nature in person, and so couldn't identify most of the green undergrowth, but it was still pretty.

Not that there was a lot to identify. The canopy being as thick as it was, the ground was mostly moss and stone and little else. Taking Mairead's camera from her pack, she snapped away, following the line of a little creek. There was nothing unusual to be seen for a good half mile, until she rounded a bend in the stream and found something that stopped her in her tracks.

Roses, thousands of them, red and white and pink, scaling the bark of half a dozen trees. What in God's name were _roses_ doing in the middle of an Irish forest? She didn't think they were native, but what the hell did she know? She'd take one to Gran, and get her opinion.

Picking a rose, she soon discovered, was not an easy thing, and she pricked the hell out of her fingers in the process. Eventually the stem snapped, and she paused to inhale its fragrance.

"Why have you taken a rose, little Lorna, and come here against my command?"

Lorna nearly jumped out of her skin, dropping Mairead's camera - which, of course, cracked open as soon as it hit the stone. _Shit_.

She turned, and found herself confronted with the tallest man she had ever seen - he had to be six-five, easily. His hair was long and silver-blond, his face like something carved from luminous white marble, and he wore some kind of flowing silvery robe that shimmered in the sunlight. His pale eyes, however, were a little too familiar.

"You are _fucking_ kidding me," she said. Her every instinct told her to run like hell, but she couldn't move. In answer, all she could say was the first thing that popped into her head: "It's my gran's land, I'll do what I want."

He arched one impressively thick eyebrow. "This has been my land since long before your people arrived. You trespass, little Lorna." His voice was rich and deep, his accent not at all Irish.

How the hell did he know her name? It wasn't a question worth sticking around to ask. "Uh-huh, well, I'll just see myself out," she said - and booked it.

Or tried to, anyway. She hadn't got more than three steps before a long-fingered white hand clamped around her left arm with a strength that was honestly terrifying - Jesus, he had to move faster than a snake. Her heart lurched, adrenaline flooding her veins and jagging along her nerves.

Lorna rounded on him, but he actually managed to catch her other arm before she could hit him, and holy shit, she was going to _die_ here, wasn't she?

"Kill me and I'll haunt you," she said, hardly aware of what left her mouth.

His expression was amused, not murderous, and though his grip was tight, it wasn't painful. "I will not kill you, little Lorna," he said, "if you sing me a song. You promised you would, did you not?"

That she had, though at the moment she couldn't think of a single song. "Could you maybe let go'v me first? I think we've established I can't run away." This close, she could smell him - something rich and spicy and alien, and far too distracting.

To her relief, he did, and she hopped up onto a tall boulder, feeling a need to close their height difference a bit. She couldn't look at him and think, so she shut her eyes, and her brain actually coughed up a song.

 _"If I ever leave this world alive_  
 _I'll thank for all the things you did in my life_  
 _If I ever leave this world alive_  
 _I'll come back down and sit beside your_  
 _feet tonight_  
 _Wherever I am you'll always be_  
 _More than just a memory_  
 _If I ever leave this world alive_

She had a decent enough voice that she'd successfully panhandled with it and her guitar, and though her heart still thundered, she somehow kept it from wavering.

 _"If I ever leave this world alive_  
 _I'll take on all the sadness_  
 _That I left behind_  
 _If I ever leave this world alive_  
 _The madness that you feel will soon subside_  
 _So in a word don't shed a tear_  
 _I'll be here when it all gets weird_  
 _If I ever leave this world alive"_

It was easier now, focusing on the words, rather than on her currently unseen companion. She just hoped to God he'd let her out again when she was through.

 _"So when in doubt just call my name_  
 _Just before you go insane_  
 _If I ever leave this world_  
 _Hey I may never leave this world_  
 _But if I ever leave this world alive"_

Liam had loved this song - she'd sung it to him sometimes while they drove, since the van's radio didn't work. Her throat tried to lose with tears she couldn't shed, and she ruthlessly shoved it away.

 _"She says I'm okay; I'm alright,_  
 _Though you have gone from my life_  
 _You said that it would,_  
 _Now everything should be all right"_

When she opened her eyes, she jumped again. Thranduil had silently drawn very near, so near that she could see flecks of silver in his arctic eyes. Her perch was high enough that his face was close to hers, close enough that she could feel the heat of his breath.

"Thank you, little Lorna," he said, tracing his fingers down her cheek. She ought to have slapped him for it - she _really_ didn't like being touched by strangers - but somehow it didn't occur to her to do so. His fingers were cool, and inhumanly smooth.

"Can I go now?" she asked, her voice cracking.

"Not yet," he said, tracing his thumb over her jaw. "You have given me something, and now I will give you something in return."

Before she could speak, he closed the distance between them and kissed her, gentle and soft, his hand slipping through her hair to cradle the back of her head.

Lorna drew a sharp, startled breath, and he slipped his tongue between her parted lips, exploring her mouth with devastating thoroughness. He tasted like wine and spice and something else, something she suspected was pure _Thranduil_ , and while part of her brain told her there was something very wrong with this, the rest of it couldn't figure out _what._

She didn't protest when he stepped closer, standing between her legs, pulling her against him, his free arm wrapping around her back. Her hands came up to rest on the silvery brocade of his robes as he kissed her breathless.

Her vision was actually starting to darken around the edges by the time he let her up for air, his mouth traveling the line of her jaw. When he reached her neck he bit her just beneath her ear - not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to make her moan. _How_ could he know how much she liked that?

She felt him smile against her skin. He kissed his way down her neck, while his hands stole beneath her grey tank top - such large hands, his fingers so long they could almost span the width of her back with just one hand. Lorna shivered as they trailed up her spine, his fingers pressing with just enough pressure to make her gasp and arch against him.

When he laughed, she felt it as much as heard it. "One moment, Lorna," he said, stepping back and shedding his robe. He had some kind of black, high-collared tunic beneath it, with about a billion tiny buttons, and once he'd draped the silvery fabric on a patch of moss, he went to work on them, watching her all the while.

This _was_ wrong, she was sure of it, but a strange, hazy warmth had suffused her mind, quite different from the heat of desire that pooled low in her belly. Her fingers itched to touch all that smooth porcelain skin - she wanted to feel him, to _taste_ him, and from the heat in his eyes, it was mutual. She stripped off her tank top, leaving only the sports bra she didn't really need, her movements strangely drunken. Still, she couldn't help but feel a little self-conscious; she didn't just have the body of a pre-pubescent girl, she had a number of nasty scars from a lifetime of misadventure.

"You are beautiful, Lorna," Thranduil said, dropping his tunic carelessly onto the ground. He pulled her close, kissing her again, and she shivered at the feel of his skin against hers. Beneath her hands, the broad plane of his back didn't have a single blemish or imperfection, and she felt the shift in his muscles when he lifted her off the rock, depositing her carefully onto his robe. She'd never touched silk before, but that had to be what it was made of, for it was so very soft.

Again Thranduil kissed her, deep and hungry, and Lorna moaned when his hand slipped beneath the waistband of her jeans, his long fingers stroking and teasing. The heat in her belly went up a few degrees, and she tried to arch into his touch.

"Patience, Lorna," he laughed. "We have time." He removed his hand so that he could take her bra off, leaving her exposed and uncertain.

He arched an eyebrow, pure wickedness in his pale eyes. "Did I not tell you that you are beautiful?" he asked, and his silvery hair whispered over her skin as he kissed his way down her sternum, unsnapping and unzipping her jeans as he went. He stripped both them and her knickers off in one disturbingly smooth movement, tossing her sandals out of the way.

Before she could say a thing, he gently parted her legs, and then his mouth was on her, and what little rational thought she had fled.

His hands gripped her hips with that terrifying strength, keeping her pinned in place while his tongue possibly worked literal magic on her. Normally Lorna wasn't exactly vocal during sex, but he had her whimpering inside of thirty seconds, his tongue unerringly finding the little bundle of nerves that made her try desperately to arch, lapping at her with the delicacy of a cat, with the occasional long, slow lick that left her writhing as much as she actually could. Her legs were trembling, and she was so close, _so close_ , but he didn't seem willing to let her over the edge.

"Oh, come _on_ , Thranduil!" she whined, barely resisting the urge to kick him in the back.

He laughed, but obliged her - one last suckle and flick of his tongue was all it took, and she came so hard her vision actually went white, ecstasy firing along her every nerve like lightning. She keened, low in her throat, shuddering as aftershocks of pleasure sparked through her.

"Jesus goddamn _Christ_ ," she groaned. Her legs were so rubbery she doubted she'd be standing any time soon.

"Oh, I'm far from through with you, little Lorna," Thranduil said, and she'd swear his voice had dropped an octave. It actually made her toes curl into the silky fabric beneath her.

He eased two of his long, long fingers into her, stroking and exploring, thrusting slowly in and out, and _God_ , was he trying to drive her insane? He was finding places inside her she hadn't known existed, places that had stars dancing behind her eyes and sounds of almost animal _need_ spilling from her throat.

He laughed again, very quietly, and bent his head to kiss her, not seeming to mind at all when she sank her hands in his hair, biting on his lower lip. The pace of his fingers picked up, fucking her hard and deep, but his kisses were light and almost chaste, and when he stroked something deep within her, her muscles locked up from the sheer force of her climax, drawing a ragged, guttural cry from her chest. That was - that was - she didn't even have _words_ for what that was.

She was still trying - and failing - to catch her breath when Thranduil scooped her up, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her onto his lap. "I would rather not crush you, little Lorna," he said, smiling down at her, and oh, he was beautiful when he smiled - he was always beautiful, but just now he seemed far less remote.

Lorna couldn't actually formulate a response - all she could do was run her hands up his chest, and wrap her arms around his neck, letting his hair slip through her fingers like water.

He bent his head and kissed her even as he slowly thrust into her - mercifully slowly, for it had been nearly a year since she'd last been with Liam, and Thranduil wasn't exactly lacking in that department.

His canyon-deep groan when he was fully inside her might just have been the sexiest thing she'd ever heard in her life, and the ragged exhale that followed made her shiver.

Thankfully, he waited a moment before he moved, and Lorna cried out when he did, her blunt nails digging into his back. His hair tickled over her shoulders as he kissed her again, his pace gentle but relentless, and Lorna didn't think she'd ever felt this beautiful, this _wanted_. It made him arch into him without thought or reserve or shame, craving every possible point of contact they could have, even as he thrust harder and faster and she thought she might honestly lose her mind.

He wound his hand in her hair, pulling her head back, and again bit just beneath her ear, thrusting exceptionally deep as he did, and Lorna nearly screamed, her nails scoring down his back, all but sobbing in her pleasure.

Thranduil buried his face in her hair, growling low in his throat as his movements became more erratic, until he thrust up into her one last, delicious time, groaning as he spent himself.

Lorna was still gasping when he gently laid her down on his robe, lying beside her and pulling her close. Her body was sheened with sweat, but his skin remained dry and smooth. His fingers played idly through her hair, stroking along her arm.

She knew she probably ought to say something, but she had no idea what. Sleep was already dragging her relentlessly downward.

* * *

When Lorna woke, she was fully dressed, wrapped up in Thranduil's robe, and alone. And very, very sore.

She'd been asleep for _hours_ \- it was fully dark, the faint light of the waning moon filtering through the trees.

Mairead was going to kill her. And not just for the camera.

Lorna was a terrible liar; if asked, she was going to have to tell her sister that she'd gone into the woods - though she had no intention of mentioning that their owner had literally fucked her senseless. _That_ was private, thank you very much.

She pressed her face against the robe, inhaling deeply - it smelled like musk and spice and _Thranduil_ , masculine and alien all at once. She wanted to take it with her, but that would be horribly rude, so she folded it as neatly as she could, leaving it on the bed of moss.

Wincing as she walked, she groped for the remnants of Mairead's camera, stashing the pieces in her pack before stumbling and tripping her way back to the forest's edge. Warm though the day had been, it was chilly now, and she hurried her way home under the stars. Jesus, it felt like she'd been reamed out with a damn hoe-handle; she needed a hot bath ASAP.

Mairead, predictably, was furious that she hadn't called - but she paled when she saw the leaves in her sister's hair. "Lorna, where have you been?" she asked faintly.

"The woods," Lorna admitted. "I took some pictures, dropped your camera - I'll buy you a new one, by the way - and had a chat with Lord Thranduil. He isn't half creepy, too."

Mairead actually looked ready to faint. "He didn't kill you."

"Well, _duh_. He said he'd let me go if I sang him a song," Lorna said, grabbing a beer out of the fridge, "so I did. We talked a bit, I took a very long nap, and now I'm home."

Mairead still looked ready to keel over at a moment's notice. "I'll not have you going back there again, Lorna," she warned.

"I've no plans to." Except…part of her did sort of _want_ to. How strange it was, to have something so…so _supernatural_ so very near by. Maybe she would go visit Thranduil again someday, and bring her guitar.

* * *

Lorna's next few weeks were too busy for her to think of going anywhere. As a means of earning a little extra cash, she helped the farmers bring in the hay on her days off, which left her exhausted enough that she slept easily.

By the time September came, her already dark skin was even browner, and she was feeling distinctly irritable. The smell of beer also turned her stomach, which made work a bit of a nightmare. It got to the point where it was actively making her sick, leaving her running for the toilets multiple times during her shifts.

"This is absolute crap," she groaned, rinsing her mouth out and spitting into the cracked porcelain sink.

When she opened the door, Big Jamie was on the other side. "Don't you look terrible," he said.

"I love you too," she snorted.

"Lorna, listen, if you're in the family way, I've got to hire someone for when you're off on leave," he said. "And whoever the da is, he'd best do right by you."

Lorna felt the blood drain from her face. "I can't - oh, Christ," she groaned. "Well, this is a mess and a half." She'd already been knocked up once - she ought to have recognized the symptoms herself.

"Who's the da, Lorna?" he asked, clearly ready to tear the man a new one.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," she sighed. "I didn't think I could _get_ up the yard again."

"Lorna," he said again, "who's the da? I'm not old-fashioned enough to say you ought to get married, but he's got to stand by you anyway."

She glanced up and down the short corridor, then grabbed the front of his shirt and dragged him into the Ladies', shutting the door behind them. "You've got to promise me you'll not breathe a word'v this to anyone," she said. " _Anyone_ , Jamie. The da, he's…he's not from the village."

"That's not helping, Lorna."

She grimaced. "I went and had a visit with Lord Thranduil a while ago," she said, "and evidently came out with more than I went _in_ with."

Amusingly enough, Big Jamie's reaction was rather like Mairead's. He staggered and sat down on the toilet, ashen-faced. "You - are you _daft_? Lorna, he could have killed you!"

"Yeah, well, he didn't," she sighed. "If you really have to know, I sang him a song and we shagged like rabbits, okay? I didn't expect I'd have _this_ little complication. Mairead'll kill me."

"You're not - _keeping_ it, are you?"

"Of course I am. I lost the first one - I'll not lose this one, too." At least she'd got a baby, and not some supernatural STD. Would Elf herpes make you break out in glitter? Probably.

Big Jamie swallowed. "Lorna, Lord Thranduil's not _human_ ," he said. "Who knows what carrying this child will do to you?"

"I'll just have to find out, now won't I? Remember, Jamie - not a word. To anyone."

* * *

Lorna was smart enough to get Mairead drunk before she dropped _that_ bomb on her, careful to disguise the fact that there wasn't any alcohol in her own mixers.

The kids had gone to bed, and Kevin was watching TV in the lounge, so the pair of them sat on the back deck, watching the sunset. There was a bit of a bite in the night air now, and Lorna sat wrapped in a fluffy red afghan.

"Lord Thranduil knocked me up," she said - unfortunately, just as her sister was taking a sip of her Mai-Tai. Pink liquid went shooting out her nose, and she broke into a hacking cough, upending the drink all over her lap.

Oops.

" _What?_ " Mairead demanded, still coughing.

Lorna sighed. "Lord Thranduil knocked me up. I've got an alien baby, like Scully on _The X-Files_. Except getting mine was a lot more fun."

Mairead stared at her, helplessly. "Lorna…." She started, but trailed off. "I ought to _strangle_ you."

"Why?" Lorna genuinely wondered.

"Because… _because_. Lorna, you can't just go shagging the Fair Folk and not expecting any consequences!"

"I cannot _believe_ that just came out of your mouth. I'll be _fine_ , Mairead. I've got another chance to be a mam."

"To a child who won't be human," Mairead pointed out.

"It'll be _half_ human," Lorna said. "And it can go have play-dates with its da, or whatever, if he's interested."

Mairead buried her face in her hands.

* * *

Big Jamie must have kept his word, for no one else looked at her like she was a dead woman walking.

What was hilarious - and rather touching - was how solicitous and overprotective every single bloody patron became, as soon as she began to show - which, at her diminutive size, only took another fortnight. The men were especially bad about it; apparently, even the worst reprobates were hard-wired to look after pregnant women. They wouldn't let her lift _anything_ \- they even cleaned up the tables after themselves, and Mick, the man she'd lamped out with a beer mug, often stayed after, to help her mop the floor.

It was surprisingly easy for her to put off naming the father, though she didn't trust that to last once the kid was actually born. She'd planned to keep it to herself as long as she could - a plan that was dashed to pieces when the man himself strolled brazenly into the pub.

He wasn't wearing the robe this time - now he had on a long black coat, high-collared like his tunic, his silvery hair free. Lorna nearly dropped the bottle of vodka she was holding.

The general murmur quieted as everyone regarded this stranger - this very _strange_ stranger. She doubted anyone would know who he was, give than she was apparently the only one who had seen him and lived, but he was imposing as hell.

"And here was me thinking you were meant to be sneaky," she said, setting down the bottle. "This isn't exactly sneaky."

"You did not come back," he said, arching an eyebrow and taking a hastily-vacated seat at the bar.

"I didn't know that you wanted me to," she retorted. "Anyway, I've been busy. And _pregnant_ ," she added pointedly.

He smirked. "I _did_ say I would give you something, did I not?"

"I didn't think this was what you had in mind," she said dryly. She was surprised at how very glad she was to see him, and not just because he was so easy on the eyes. She'd wondered about him quite a bit since that day. "D'you want a drink?"

"Your people have not made decent alcohol in centuries," he said. "Once you have had your child, you must taste some of my wine."

Now it was Lorna who arched an eyebrow. "I think I already did," she said. "Wouldn't say no to more, mind you."

"Lorna, is this the bloke what knocked you up?" Michael asked.

"That would be him," she said, still looking at Thranduil. "Up to you whether or not they know your name yet, mate."

"But they do know my name," he said, taking her right hand - it looked positively tiny in his own. "They've known it for hundreds of years."

Some bright (or at least, sober) spark must have worked that out, for there was a sharp gasp, and the scrape of a chair as somebody scooted away.

"Walk with me tonight, Lorna, when you are free." There was a strange, almost wistful _yearning_ in his pale eyes, and she wondered if he really was lonely.

She smiled. "Okay. But I've got to ring my sister first, or she'll have the bloody Guarda out looking for me."

He returned her smile, kissed her hand, and left without looking at anyone else.

There was quiet for a moment, and then Alec, twin of Mick the Drunk, spoke. "Lorna," he said, sounding both shaken and pained, "tell me _Lord Thranduil_ isn't the father'v your sprog?"

Lorna pinched the bridge of her nose. "I can't, because he is. I didn't think he'd ever come _here_ , though, because I thought he didn't do that."

"He doesn't," old Orla said, crossing herself. Her blue eyes were wide with real fear. "You…and him…?"

Lorna rolled her eyes. " _Yes_ , me and him. Jesus, d'you want _details_ or something?"

"I could stand to hear a few," Dai said, and grunted when someone elbowed him.

She smirked. "I'll give you just one to chew on: the things that man can do with his tongue shouldn't be _legal_."

She had to fight not to laugh at old Orla's expression, which went from fearful to thoughtful.

* * *

Lorna carefully didn't tell Mairead _why_ she'd be out late - just that she would. Once she'd closed up shop, she found Thranduil out back, patiently waiting.

"You're lurking without a permit," she said, and took his arm when he offered it. The air was downright chilly, but a walk would warm her up.

"I do not know what a 'permit' is, but it sound unpleasant," he said. "There is too much stone in your village, Lorna. I don't like it."

"How did you know my name?" she asked, looking up at him. In the moonlight, he almost seemed to glow.

"Lurking," he said, a little smugly, "without a permit. You intrigued me, the night you visited the edge of my forest, and I followed you home."

"Because _that's_ not creepy," she said, shivering a little.

"I could hardly court you if I did not know your name."

She halted, dragging him to a stop as well. " _Court_ me?" she asked. " _Why?_ "

There was a thread of sorrow in his pale eyes. "Nobody has ever offered to give me something without expectation of anything in return."

"What, _never_?" She didn't know how old he was, but it had to be at least a few hundred years. That was _appalling_.

His lips twitched into a humorless smile. "I have been given many gifts to appease me - to keep me where I belong. No one has ever gifted me anything simply because they wanted to."

"Okay, first off, that's horrible, and second off, as soon as I learn how to cook, I'm baking you a pie. I'd say let's go get drunk, but I'm off the stuff until I pop this kid out."

Thranduil actually laughed, and she couldn't help but smile back. "I look forward to both," he said.

"Good. You can't beat booze and pie, especially together."

* * *

The pie, naturally, is a reference to Lee Pace's role on _Pushing Daisies_. I don't own the song Lorna sings - that's "If I Ever Leave this World Alive" by Flogging Molly.

Title means "surprise" in Irish. Drop me a review and tell me if this is worth continuing or not.


	2. Scéalta

In which Thranduil and Lorna get to know one another a bit better, he pays another visit to the village, and she gets a very large shock.

* * *

Thranduil, Lorna soon discovered, walked too damn fast. Chilly though the night was, trying to walk so fast was making her break a sweat.

"Will you not slow down? I'm a foot and a half shorter than you, _and_ I've got a cantaloupe in my gut," she grumbled.

Slow he did, and quirked an eyebrow at her. "A cantaloupe?" he questioned.

"That's what it feels like. It'll be a watermelon before long, and I'll be waddling like a duck. I already have to pee every five minutes." According to Mairead, that would only get worse, too.

"I did not realize Edain pregnancies were so…uncomfortable," he said, sounding a bit disturbed.

"Edain?"

"It is what my people call yours," he said, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. She leaned against him, breathing in his spicy-rich- _Thranduil_ scent. She still couldn't put any name to it; it was musky and heady and could make her dizzy, if she let it.

"Are there others like you, in your forest? Nobody's actually told me much about it."

"No," he sighed, his fingers playing over her arm. "The rest of my people are long gone to Valinor, but I could not forsake this world. I have dwindled, but still I live."

That…was pretty goddamn horrible, actually. "So you've been alone for what, centuries?" The mere thought…actually hurt, a little. She could all too easily see him wandering alone in his towering forest, cut off from the world outside.

"Millennia, now," he said, taking the end of her braid in his fingers. "Your people forgot about mine – we are merely stories now, that none really believe."

She gave him a slight dig with her elbow. "This village believes in _you_ ," she said. "I had no end'v people telling me to steer clear'v your woods."

"Why did you not?" he asked, his pale eyes curious. The flecks of silver in them were as bright as the stars massed overhead.

"Because I don't believe in anything," she said bluntly. "Or at least, I didn't. You sure as hell left me with no doubt you were real, even before I found out I had one in the oven. I couldn't walk right for _days_."

Thranduil gave her an incredibly self-satisfied smirk. "Well, you _are_ very small."

"And you're very…not," she said. "I didn't tell my sister what we'd got up to in there, so telling her I was preggers made her damn near choke to death." She paused. "Is carrying this kid going to do anything bad to me, you not being human and all?"

He brushed the fringe back from her forehead. "It should not," he said. "Your kind and mine have interbred successfully – albeit rarely – for thousands of years."

He visibly relaxed as soon as they'd crossed over the border of the village, out into the fields. How weird, that he should mind all the concrete, when his forest was full of rocks – but then, concrete wasn't exactly natural.

"What are you, Thranduil?" Lorna asked. "Gran and my sister call you one'v the Fair Folk, but what d'you call yourself?"

"My people are Elves," he said. "We call ourselves the Eldar, for we were the first to wake. I have walked this shore for some six thousand years, but the eldest, when he left, was fifteen thousand."

She almost choked on her own spit. "Well, that's one hell'v an age gap. I only turned twenty-nine in May. Will our kid have your lifespan, or mine?"

"They will have to choose. Peredhel – half-Elves – are given the right to decide whether they will be mortal or immortal."

"They?" Lorna asked, suddenly wary.

"They," he affirmed. "Twins, a boy and a girl. They will have my hair, and your truly unearthly eyes."

Lorna snorted. " _My_ eyes're unearthly? Have you not looked in a mirror lately?"

"Ah, but I am an Elf, little Lorna. We are meant to look unearthly," Thranduil said, tucking her hair behind her ear.

She burst out laughing. "Suppose you've got a point there. I'll tell you what, Thranduil: I'll visit you in your forest as often as I can, until I can't make the walk, but I want you to come to the village sometimes, too. There's all manner'v scary stories about you, and I'd rather everyone not be afraid you're going to cook me into a pie as soon as my back's turned."

He looked understandably wary, but at least he didn't immediately say no.

"I'm not asking you to come to the pub every evening, but maybe once or twice a month? Right now they think you kill everyone who wanders into your forest and isn't me." Christ, she hoped he didn't, or this was going to get _really_ awkward.

Thranduil snorted, and it was such an incongruously _human_ sound that she almost laughed. "I have never killed an Edain in my forest," he said. "In truth, very few have dared enter, and when I find one, I wipe their memory and send them on their way. If I am sleeping, and the Edain is not destructive enough to wake me, I will not always know they are there. If they get lost and starve or freeze, it is hardly _my_ fault."

Well, _that_ was something of a relief. "So you wouldn't've actually killed me?"

"Of course not," he said, tracing the line of her sleeve. "I merely wished to see what you would do."

"And shag me," she said dryly.

He gave her a smirk. "That too. I knew that you mourned the loss of a child, and it was all I could give you that I thought would mean something. That it was an enjoyable gift to give only made it better."

Lorna laughed again, but at the same time, she was a little disturbed. "How did you know that? More lurking without a permit?"

"Precisely. I broke into your house while your family was asleep, and looked through your things," Thranduil said blithely, as though there was nothing at all odd about it. Perhaps, to him, there was not.

She twitched. "Okay, Thranduil? Don't do that again. It's beyond creepy. If you want to know something, ask."

He seemed to genuinely not understand why she was so unsettled – but then, he wasn't human. Maybe his value system was different. "As you wish."

They were very nearly at the house now, warm light spilling out the windows and onto the lawn. "I should leave you, lest your sister perish of heart failure. May I kiss you goodnight?"

Lorna burst out laughing. " _Now_ you ask? Yes, you weirdo."

Thranduil gave her another smirk, and when he kissed her, it was the sweetest, most chaste kiss she had ever received, sending a warmth more pure than desire through her. "Goodnight, little Lorna. I will see you soon."

Lorna watched him go, and wondered why she didn't resent him calling her little; normally, she detested references to her height. But then, from him, it didn't seem like an insult."

Thankfully, Mairead hadn't been watching for her, and so hadn't seen who walked her home. She managed to go to bed without interrogation, and her sleep was sweet and dreamless.

* * *

On her next day off, she headed out at sunrise, or what would have been sunrise, if not for the heavy cloud cover. It was a chilly, misty morning, threatening rain; she didn't have a raincoat, so she borrowed Mairead's – the thing was large enough to be a tent on her, but at least she'd stay dry.

She took a lunch with her, and a Thermos of hot tea, and wished like hell she could add some whiskey to it. Seriously, this teetotaler thing was as horrible this time around as it had been the first, and now it had lasted longer. She couldn't drink, she couldn't smoke…it was a good thing she had Thranduil to distract her, or she'd go spare.

The grass, wet from rain in the night, squeaked beneath her boots, and even yet it smelled amazing to her. In the house in Dublin, their garden had consisted of a dead patch of lawn and nothing else, and of course in the warehouse there hadn't been anything like a lawn at all, so this was still new to her. It was browning fast, thanks to two very early frosts, but to her it was still pretty.

If only the walk didn't make her back ache so – but then, _everything_ made her back ache, and her center of gravity was so banjaxed that she'd tripped over nothing more than once. Oh well. She knew just how talented Thranduil's hands were – he could put them to non-sexy but just as well-appreciated use.

When she reached the edge of the forest, she hesitated, though she didn't know why. Curiously, the ground within it appeared to be dry. While the canopy was thick, surely it couldn't have kept out rain as hard as what she'd heard pounding on the roof last night.

 _Not that I'm complaining_ , Lorna thought. It must be a side-effect of pregnancy, but for the first time in her life, cold was actually bothering her, sometimes quite a bit. Most of her life she'd been indifferent to it – she'd had to be, with the way she'd lived – but now it didn't take much to make her feel unbearably chilly. She hoped Thranduil's home had a fireplace, since she doubted central heating was a thing among the Elves.

Speaking of his house, she had no idea where it actually was. Breaking a rose seemed to have summoned him last time, so she'd just have to do it again, and hope it acted like some kind of supernatural doorbell. Provided there were any roses left to break; it was late enough in the year that surely the blossoms had all died. Christ, she hoped not.

The little creek gurgled beside her, chuckling to itself, and she wondered where it came from, and where it went. She'd never seen a creek in the fields, and by now she'd wandered most of them. It was almost as though she'd stepped into some pocket of another world – and perhaps she had. Really, she knew next to nothing about Thranduil, for all it felt like she did. And she couldn't even break into his home and stalk him while he was asleep, which was beyond unfair.

To her surprise, the roses were indeed still in full bloom, and she paused a moment to admire them, and to inhale their heady scent. She'd actually had no idea what a rose smelled like until she was fifteen years old, and had wandered into a flower shop to get out of the rain. They'd been almost too rich for her taste, but she loved it now.

"You need not break a rose this time, little Lorna."

She twitched. "Bell, Thranduil," she said, turning to face him. "I am getting you a bell. I'd rather not die'v heart failure myself, especially not while I'm still knocked up."

"You are rather too young and healthy for that," he said, taking her chilled hands in his. He had on again the black coat he'd worn into the village, and in this light she noticed it had very subtle silver embroidery swirling through the fabric.

"Says you," she said. "I hope you've got heat in that house'v yours, wherever it is. I'm bloody freezing." Christ, but his eyes weren't half hypnotic; they held hers in a way she would have called creepy in anyone else. In a sense, it was, but she had no fear of him, even if she probably should have, from a purely practical standpoint. She'd felt the strength in him; he could snap her neck in an instant if he wanted to.

Thranduil gave her one of his now-familiar smirks, and that was another thing: on anyone else, she'd have wanted to punch the expression right off their face, but on him it just seemed…natural. There was an arrogance to it, yes, and it was a bit irritating, but he was one of the sort who had a right to be a bit arrogant. He wasn't what the Americans would call a poseur; she doubted people _got_ more real than Thranduil.

"I do," he said, "if you will follow me." He took her arm, as he had the other night, just like some posh gentleman in an old movie. It was…novel, to say the least.

Lorna had been wondering for weeks now just where he could be hiding his home, for she couldn't imagine him living in a little house. Honestly, he dressed and acted like some manner of royalty, though that could just be her seeing him through a human perspective.

He led her deeper into the forest – much deeper, actually, so much so that she would have got very lost on her own, until they reached a rather strange, and certainly unobtrusive, door.

"Once upon a time, my people lived in caverns," he said, waving his free hand over it before opening it. "There are few enough of those left unexplored, but none have found my home."

Lorna swallowed. She was more than a bit claustrophobic, and hoped like hell that she wasn't going to have to crawl through any narrow tunnels.

But no, of course not – as if Thranduil could have handled a confined space, at his height. What he led her into made her pause, actually stealing her breath for a moment.

The cave was _huge_ , far bigger than one person could possibly need, illuminated by lamps that shouldn't be so bright without electricity to power them. The floor was littered with pools of water, surrounded by mossy stones and delicate ferns of a type she'd never seen in the forest, so still they illuminated the lights like mirrors. Above the floor was a complex system of aerial walkways – some carved to look like the bark of a tree, and all entirely without railings. There were _real_ trees, too, growing right up through the roof of the cave, just as huge as those above it. And, mercifully, it was somehow much warmer than the outdoors above.

"Holy shit," she said. "You _live_ here?"

Thranduil seemed genuinely pleased by her reaction, in an understated way. "I do," he said. "And have, for five of my six thousand years. Once there were many of us, but now it is only myself and the Lingerers."

She looked up at him. "Lingerers?"

"I am not the only Elf who wished to stay in this world," he said seriously. "The others, however, Faded – their souls burnt up their bodies, until they are now nothing but houseless fëa, wandering the Earth unseen by any save myself and one another."

Lorna winced. "Have you really never let anyone else down here? Anyone human, I mean?"

He sighed. "Those who are born in this village are too afraid of me," he said. "I know not just what manner of stories they tell of me, but obviously they are not good. Admittedly, I have not helped, but still. None have given me any cause to believe they would not seek more from me – none until you."

"It was just a song," she said, taking his hand and squeezing it. "It's not like it was worth anything."

Thranduil brushed her mist-dampened hair back from her forehead. "It was the best thing you had to give," he said. "I know that you have next to nothing, Lorna – nothing material, anyway. Your people have so long been obsessed with currency, with physical bartering, that you have forgotten the worth of the intangible. And you offered it to me freely, without expectation of anything in return. As I told you, that is…unprecedented, in my life. I had to follow you – I had to know more of you."

That…actually, that made her feel a bit inferior. Never in all her life had she actually done anything – not anything worth noting, anyway. "I hope you weren't disappointed by what you found," she said. "I haven't exactly had a life worth much remark." And compared to him, she was so very, very young. Twenty-nine wasn't exactly old even by human standards, but by his? She was probably less than an infant to him, which, okay, made their sexy shenanigans a bit creepy.

"So you broke into my house and stalked me," she said dryly. "Do me a favor and don't ever tell Mairead that. She'd never sleep at night again."

He smiled – actually smiled, not smirked. "Very well. Come, let me show you my kingdom."

"Kingdom?" she asked, even as he led her along one of the high paths.

"I was king of this land, once," he said. "I suppose I still am, though there are none now for me to rule over."

Lorna halted, dragging him to a stop as well. "You're a _king_? Christ, no wonder you seem so posh." Well, now she felt _really_ inferior, though also rather flattered. The King of the damn Elves thought she was worth a second glance. Damn.

 _There_ was the smirk. "I am uncertain what 'posh' means, but I can make a guess. There is little enough meaning in my title now, but I wear it still."

Jesus, that meant their kids were going to be some kind of royal bastards. At least there was no point in them fighting over a throne their father would occupy forever.

He led her onward, past a rushing waterfall that misted her face with icy spray. Where was _it_ coming from? The physics of this place were beyond her. If she'd had such a beautiful home, she'd never leave it.

She winced, rubbing the small of her back, and Thranduil paused. "Are you in pain?"

"A little. My back's been sore as hell for the last three weeks, thanks to the cantaloupes." She would never stop thinking of the twins like that, not now.

"Ah. In that case, this way." He led her off onto a branching walkway, and God, weren't they high up now. Heights were not her friend at the best of times, and now she clung to Thranduil like a limpet, figuring that he was unlikely to fall no matter what she did.

Eventually they reached a very vast room – his bedroom, as it turned out, and just as beautiful as the rest of the place. His bed was a massive four-poster, the posts carved to look like trees, with branches winding together to form the canopy. The spread was autumn-rusty velvet that looked so soft she wanted to burrow into it and never come out again – and yet something about it made her sad. This vast room, these vast caves, and Thranduil was all alone. There ought to be hundreds, _thousands_ of people here – how could he stand it? Even the most antisocial of people would surely go mad in such isolation.

"Take that thing off and sit on the bed, if you can't lie down," he said, and she fumbled with the buttons on her coat – her fingers were still stiff with chill.

"Yeah, lying on my stomach doesn't happen anymore," she said. "I'm afraid I'd squish the sprogs." Which, given that she normally _slept_ on her stomach, had made her nights a misery for some weeks now. She had a hard enough time sleeping as it was.

She took her boots off and clambered onto the bed, and found the duvet every bit as soft as she'd imagined. Since he was alone, how did he keep everything so _clean?_ She hadn't seen so much as a speck of dust.

Thranduil sat behind her, his hands slipping beneath the hem of her shirts. They were still cool, but not cold, and yet again his fingers seemed downright magical. He knew exactly where to knead, and how hard, and it was all she could do not to moan. His thumbs traveled up her spine, moving in soothing circles, and she felt all the tension she'd been carrying drain like water through a sieve.

"You," she said, "are unfairly good at that."

"I _am_ six thousand years old," he said, a trifle smugly. "I would hope so."

She wanted to snark at him, but she was feeling incredibly sleepy. It wasn't long before consciousness deserted her entirely.

* * *

Thranduil knew the exact moment Lorna fell asleep. As he also knew how little she'd been sleeping lately, he let her, gently helping her lie on her side. He crept up onto the bed to lie beside her, wrapping his arm around her waist, his hand on her rounded belly.

In truth, he couldn't explain, even to himself, why he'd been so drawn to her. The song had been part of it, yes; he spoke truth when he said she was the first person to freely offer him something for nothing, but he'd been drawn to her even before that – even before she appeared at the edge of his forest that night.

He _did_ often walk beyond its borders after dark, especially in the summer; he'd known when she arrived, and it had piqued his interest, simply because so few strangers ever came to this sleepy little village. Her fëa had been deeply wounded by the loss of her husband and her child, its light perilously dim, and for some reason, that had bothered him immensely. _Why_ , he didn't know – she was mortal; by his reckoning, her life would be over in a heartbeat. There was nothing at all overtly remarkable about her, either: she was little different from thousands of other Edain, and yet…

And yet.

He had hoped she would return – had been certain she would, sooner or later, for she didn't seem like the sort who could ignore her own curiosity. Admittedly, he hadn't intended to seduce her from the outset; he'd merely wanted to see her, to speak with her, to try to divine just what it was that drew him. But then she sang to him.

Her voice could not compare to that of Elven bards, but the honesty, the _feeling_ in it – it was something he hadn't seen in a very long time. There was no artifice to Lorna, no pretence; while she was not precisely open right now, Thranduil had a feeling that she normally was, when she wasn't grieving. It was refreshing, and almost disturbingly addictive. He wanted more, wanted all of her, but it was far too early for him to actually say so.

She was honest, and she mourned, and there was but one thing he could think to give her. He'd made the giving of it pleasant for the both of them, though in truth, he could have taken her for hours, if he'd thought she could physically stand it. As he had no idea just what limitations the Edain had, he'd thought it best to err on the side of caution.

Later, once she had recovered from childbirth, they could…explore those limits, if she would allow him to. He certainly hoped that she would. She was his Lorna now, whether she liked it or not, and he'd do whatever it took to keep her.

* * *

Thranduil visited several times in the next fortnight, as the days darkened and the nights lengthened, though he rarely made his presence known to any but her.

The sun gave way to the torrential autumn rains Ireland was far more familiar with, and one particularly stormy day, half the drains on Main Street stopped up, and the pub – and half the buildings on either side of it – flooded.

"Bloody goddamn hell," Lorna grumbled. She could still see her feet, but barely, and she certainly couldn't lift anything, so she was relegated to trying to block off the outside of the doorway with a wadded-up tarpaulin that smelled like sawdust and mothballs. Big Jamie, Michael, and half a dozen of the regulars got the chairs onto the tables. The floor was going to get absolutely _ruined_.

It was still sheeting outside, the rain blown almost horizontal, and oh, it was _cold_. It soaked Lorna's hair where it blew in through the doorway, dripping down the back of her shirt, and damn did she want a drink, a nice hot coffee with two shots of Bailey's.

"You look like a drowned rat."

She jumped, and smacked Thranduil with the end of her wet braid. "You're such a charmer," she grumbled, "and I really _am_ getting you a bell. How the hell are you so _dry_?" Neither his hair nor his black coat were even damp.

"What is it you say, about how you mix your drinks? Ah yes: trade secret," he smirked. "Get inside, before you freeze." He ushered her in before she could protest, closing the door behind them, and drew the tip of his boot along the bottom edge. The water ceased welling beneath it immediately.

Lorna looked at it, and at him. "Let me guess," she said, "trade secret?"

"Precisely." He laid his right hand on her belly. "The twins are enjoying the storm."

Her eyes narrowed. "Now you're just showing off."

The sudden lack of cursing told her they'd been noticed, and she had to choke back a laugh when she found eight pairs of startled eyes watching them.

"Lord, uh, Thranduil," Big Jamie said, not quite steadily. "I wouldn't have thought to see you out here."

"All the creeks have jumped their banks," Thranduil complained. "My forest is as flooded as your village."

"You're bored, aren't you?" Lorna asked, sloshing her way across the floor to the bar. Christ, the filthy water was nearly ankle-deep.

"I was," he said. "I am not now. I unstopped several of your drains along the way, though I question what good it will do."

" _Thank you_ ," she sighed, clambering up onto a stool. "I've not seen rain like this in years."

"Nor have we," Big Jamie said, staying right where he was, not quite daring to look away from Thranduil. "After the summer we had, it had to turn up all in one lump."

"Your people have changed the weather," Thranduil said. "Even I cannot predict it with any accuracy anymore." He took Lorna's chilled hands in his, and she immediately sneezed.

He looked so startled that she laughed. "Have you not seen anyone sneeze before?"

"Not in several thousand years," he said, rubbing her fingers. "It is rather…startling."

"Just wait 'til you're in here when the lads have a belching contest," she said. "Though they've not done that in a while."

"That's because you always win," Michael said. He'd taken refuge halfway through the door to the cold room, and seemed determined to stay there.

Thranduil laughed, his pale eyes lighting up. "Do you?"

"Damn right," she said proudly, as she struggled to unlace one of her boots. They were full of water – her feet would probably be warmer without them. "I set off a car alarm once."

"I have no idea what that means, but I assume it is an accomplishment." He leaned down and grabbed her foot, nimble fingers making short work of the laces.

Before she could assure him that it was, the power cut, plunging the room into darkness. The clouds were so heavy that the light through the windows wasn't worth much.

"Dammit," Lorna grumbled, fishing her lighter out of her pocket. She'd had to quit smoking along with everything else, but the lighter had been a present from Liam, so she still carried it. The glow of the flame let her find one of the bar-candles. "Jamie, we'll be wanting more'v these."

"On it." Two more ignited, lit by Michael. "Whole village'll be a mess come morning."

The door opened, admitting a whole knot of soaked, swearing people – Mick and Alec among them, from the sound of it.

"I think the power's just cut all over town." That had to be Siobhan, clerk over at the market. "The water's so deep on Third Street it stalled my car."

Given the hollow between Mairead's house and town, if it was flooded, nobody could pick Lorna up, either. Bloody brilliant. "Is there anywhere that's not underwater?"

"Some of the fields are still dry," Thranduil said, prying her boot off and pouring the water out.

"Is that – have we got Lord Thranduil paying us a visit?" Mick asked carefully.

"We have," Lorna said, grinning up at the Elf in question. "His forest flooded, and he got bored."

Michael lit more candles, lining them up on the bar, sloshing all the while. The flames almost made Thranduil's hair seem to glow, lending some color to his pale face.

"Lorna is right," he said, reaching for her other boot. "I can do little when half my forest is underwater."

"If this rain doesn't stop, it'll be the other half by morning," she snorted. "It's like bloody monsoon season in India."

"I hope not," Alec snorted. "I've not got a kayak to go boating down the street in. Jamie, we'd best raid your fridge – everything in it'll be off by morning anyway."

Big Jamie grumbled, but for once, Alec was right, and Lorna was starving.

"I'll take all the pickles," she called.

"Are you _still_ eating those?" Thranduil asked, peeling the wet sock off her right foot.

"With mustard, now," she affirmed, ignoring Siobhan's gagging sound.

"I do not know what mustard is, but evidently, the combination is disgusting," he said dryly.

"It is to anyone who isn't up the yard," Siobhan muttered, hopping up onto one of the tables. She at least didn't seem to be tenser than over-stretched piano wire, but then, Lorna doubted she could be: Siobhan was five years her senior, with the sort of effortless blonde looks that would have made Lorna feel terribly inferior, if the woman hadn't been totally indifferent to her own appearance, and had yet to seem fazed by anything at all. "If this doesn't let up soon, I'm sleeping here tonight."

"I think we _all_ are," Lorna sighed. She didn't relish the thought – she was cold, her hair was wet, her jeans soaked to her shins, and there was nothing to sleep _on_ but the tables and the bar.

She sneezed again, but this time Thranduil didn't look so startled. "I'll have the mother'v all colds by the day after tomorrow," she groused, wiping her nose on her sleeve. It was wet and cold, too, and only made her sneeze again.

"Yes, but you will be home, and I will bring you something for it," Thranduil said. "You people get ill appallingly easily."

"Hush, you. At least we haven't got the Black Death anymore," she said, casting a longing look at the amber bottles of whiskey.

"You have no _idea_ how confusing that was, at first," he said. "Never had I seen such a pestilence – nor what it did."

That sent a hush over the room, and Lorna didn't wonder why. She herself was often surprised by reminders of just how old Thranduil was, and she'd been around him more often.

"What – what was it _like_ , watching that?" Dai asked. He was only a little younger than Lorna, and worked in his Da's mechanic – when he was sober, anyway.

"Quite frankly, disgusting," Thranduil said dryly. "There was no village here then, but my forest was much larger, and at times I would walk beyond its borders. Of the three villages nearest, I found not a single survivor. For decades, I did not know that any of your people had survived at all."

"We've cured that, you know," Lorna said, hoisting herself up to sit on the counter. "And a load'v other things. At least, until some new flu or something comes along and takes out half'v us."

"Christ, don't say that," Michael said. "I read a book about this flu in 1918 that killed a hundred million people."

"There's some going around the village already," Mick said, claiming his own table. "Nasty stuff. Mam's down with it."

"You'd best be sure you don't catch it, Lorna," Michael said. "The book said it's dangerous for pregnant women."

Of course she sneezed again. "I didn't need to hear that." Her feet felt so much better out of her boots – still cold, but at least they were dry, and she stuck them under Thranduil's coat, rested on his chest. If only the rest of her wasn't so goddamn frigid.

"What do you mean, dangerous?" Thranduil asked, an edge to his voice.

She looked at Michael, who looked a trifle pale beneath his freckles. "Nobody really knows why, but pregnant women can die'v the flu."

"See, I didn't need to hear _that_ , either," she complained.

"When I take you home, I am dousing you with every remedy I have," Thranduil said. He looked unnervingly serious, too.

"Your home, or mine?" she asked, sneezing again.

"Mine, for now. I will bring you back to your sister once I am certain you will not sneeze out sections of your brain."

Lorna burst out laughing. "I don't think that's actually possible, but okay."

Big Jamie came wading back from the cold-room, followed by Alec, both of them bearing huge trays of sandwiches. "All right, we've got sandwiches, pasties, and ice cream, and Lorna, I did you a hot chocolate, since you can't have alcohol."

"How'd you manage that, with the power off?" she asked, gratefully warming her fingers on the mug he handed her. "God, this smells amazing."

"I've a hot-plate that runs off batteries," he said. "This's the first time I've ever had cause to use it."

"You're a saint, Jamie, you really are. Thranduil, have you ever had chocolate?" She took a sip, relishing the taste, and held the mug out to him.

He looked at it with very obvious dubiousness, but hazarded a sip himself. His expression was so surprised that Lorna had to laugh.

"Good, isn't it?" she said, reaching for the mug.

He took another, longer sip before handing it back. "Surprisingly so," he said. "Does your sister have any of that in her home?"

"With four children? Of course she does. I'll make you some, and she can go pee herself in the lounge."

"I really do not understand why you are all so afraid of me," he sighed, looking around the room. It actually looked a bit ridiculous – over a dozen people sitting on tables, most now clutching sandwiches, bathed in candlelight.

"Well – it's just – haven't you killed people?" Mick asked, all but hiding behind his sandwich.

Thranduil snorted. "As I told Lorna, no, I have not. If any of you wander into my forest and freeze to death, it is neither my doing nor my fault. I might wipe your memory of the place, but I am not about to _kill_ you."

He sounded so offended that Lorna choked on her cocoa, though mercifully she didn't actually snort it out of her nose. "You can really do that?"

He looked at her. "I can do a great many things Edain would no longer believe. A thousand years ago, I could do many more."

"Oh, well, now you've _got_ to explain that," she said.

"She's right," Mick said. "We've so many stories'v you, Lord Thranduil, but I don't know how many – if any – are true."

Thranduil looked around the room again, his gaze assessing them all. "Not that one," he said. "Not yet. While I do not know quite so little about you all as you know about me, there are some things not to be shared right away."

"Can you – is there something you're willing to tell us?" Alec asked, sounding remarkably like an eager child, despite the glass of whiskey and rapidly melting ice in his hand.

Thranduil looked thoughtful. "I first came to your land some five thousand years ago," he said, "when very few of your people had yet arrived. The oceans were lower then, and some eighty miles off what is now the shore there was Erebor, the Lonely Mountain. It was the seat of a kingdom of Dwarves."

"Dwarves like, Little People, or the kind with beards and gold?" Mick asked.

"The latter. Their kingdom had stood for centuries, its people producing works of such intricate craftsmanship that they might remain unrivaled by your kind to this day."

Lorna sipped her cocoa, determined then and there to show him more of the modern world. She couldn't let _that_ insult stand.

"Their last King, however, went mad with greed, hoarding more and more gold. I warned him that he would bring a dragon upon himself if he kept on as he was, but he did not listen."

"Wait, wait," she said, " _dragon_? There were actual _dragons_?"

He looked down at her, and again there was an odd sorrow in his eyes. "There were," he said. "Someday, I will tell you a tale of another one.

"But as I said, Thrór would not listen, and time proved me right. Smaug the Terrible came to Erebor, and slaughtered its people, and slept on my doorstep for the next two hundred years."

"What happened to him?" Siobhan asked.

"There was a massive earthquake, and the entire mountain sunk into the sea. He drowned, and Erebor and all its treasure were lost."

The room was quiet for a moment. "I can't decide if that's a downer ending or not," Mick said.

"Endings are rarely happy," Thranduil said. "It is why I have isolated myself from them for so long."

"I – I don't know how to say this without sounding rude as hell," Big Jamie said, "but why've you picked now to stop isolating yourself?"

"Because change is coming," he said, stealing another sip of Lorna's cocoa. "I feel it in the water. I feel it in the earth. I smell it in the air. What it will be, I do not yet know, but it _will_ be. And perhaps, then, you will have need of me."

Lorna arched an eyebrow. "D'you have to practice being that cryptic and creepy, or does it just come naturally to you?"

Thranduil tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "A little of both, really. A king must be a little mysterious."

Mick choked on his whiskey. "You _what_?"

Thranduil smirked. "Your island was my kingdom once, long ago. My forest covered the whole of it, but one by one my people yearned to return to Valinor – our homeland. I was born of this world, however, and I do not wish to forsake it. I have diminished, but I have endured, though your people tore apart my land with iron ploughs."

He looked around the room again. "Why did you all believe in me, when none in this village had seen me in centuries?"

"Some have," Big Jamie said. "My great-gran, she saw you walking one night, when she was a girl. My gran said she said you glowed in the moonlight."

"My great-great granddad saw you, too," Siobhan added. "Said he knew you couldn't be human 'cause he saw your ears. Every family's got stories'v you, and it's a small village even now. We're not like the _city_." She said the word with such scorn that Lorna had to laugh.

"It's true," she said. "I didn't believe in you for a moment until I saw you."

The door opened before he could respond, admitting a very sodden Mairead. "Lorna, I've come – oh." She froze, staring at Thranduil with eyes round as coins. "Oh, bloody hell."

"Will you shut the damn door?" Siobhan demanded.

Mairead did, not taking her eyes off Thranduil. "You—"

"Yes, Mairead, this is Thranduil," Lorna said. "He'll not eat you."

Her sister swallowed, and then her eyes narrowed. "You knocked my baby sister up," she said. "I hope you plan on marrying her."

He looked down at Lorna. "By the standards of my people, I already have."

Lorna's cocoa shot out of her nose.

* * *

Smooth, Thranduil. Really smooth. It's a good thing she doesn't yet know how possessive you are, or you'd be having big, _big_ problems.

What he says about feeling change in the earth and the water is, of course, from _The Lord of the Rings_ – said by Gandalf in the books, and Galadriel in the movies. The story of Erebor on Earth is in fact rather a downer ending, but it would be.

Title means "Stories" in Irish. Reviews let me know if I'm going in the right direction or not, so please drop me a note.


	3. Foghlaim

In which Lorna and Thranduil have a Talk with a capital T, he learns quite a bit about human biology _and_ technology, and the village continues to be disturbed.

* * *

Hot chocolate, Lorna decided, wasn't nearly as pleasant when it shot out your nose. She coughed and hacked and then sneezed three times, spilling the hot liquid down the front of her shirt. Bugger absolutely everything.

"Thranduil," she said, when she finally could, "we need to have a discussion. _In private._ "

He gave her one of his smirks as he slid off the counter, picking her up before she could hop to the floor herself.

"Office," she ordered, grabbing a candle and pointing with one bare foot. She was rather disturbed by how silent his wading was.

Big Jamie's office was both messy and cramped, his desk covered in teetering piles of paperwork. There was a small, grimy window, but the sky was so dark it was of little use. Though it was only around six – so far as she knew – it looked more like midnight.

There being only one chair, she had to sit on Thranduil's lap, which took a bit of the dignity out of her ire. He himself seemed perfectly tranquil, with a trace of amusement in his pale eyes.

"All right, you," she said, poking him in the chest, " _how_ exactly d'you think we got married, and why did you not tell me before now?"

"I took you to bed," he said, still unperturbed, his expression languid. "Among my people, to go to bed with someone is to wed them. I said nothing to you of it because I know it is not the custom of your people, and thus I would not hold you to it. Hence why I said I must court you."

Her brain came to a screeching halt, even as she sneezed again – right in his face, actually. His grimace of disgust at least dissolved a little of her inner tension. "You did that knowing you'd be _married_ to me by your standards? Thranduil, you might know some things _about_ me, but you don't _know_ me, so why in God's name would you do that? Because I'm guessing you people haven't got divorce."

"We do not," he said, wiping his face on his sleeve with a grimace. "And you are right – I still know so little of you, and I knew less then."

"Then _why_?" That was the sort of thing only idiot humans did, or so she thought.

"Because I wanted to," he said simply, with an arch of an eyebrow. "Your people do not see as mine do. You see only the hröa, the body, but the Eldar see the fëa – the soul – as well. And your fëa is the loveliest I have ever seen."

Well, at least that would explain how he could call her beautiful and actually mean it. "Were you ever planning to tell _me_ this?" she asked, tucking her cold feet under the edge of his coat.

"If I convinced you to marry me on your terms, yes," he said, stroking the side of her face. "I still mean to court you."

Lorna fixed him with a stern glare, trying to ignore the sheer intensity in his eyes. "And you still can, provided you don't keep secrets like _that_ again," she said. "I'll not have it, Thranduil. If it affects me, I want to know about it."

"As you wish," he said, kissing her fingertips.

Lorna wanted to say that he really needed to watch _The Princess Bride_ , but instead she sneezed again – though at least this time it was into her sleeve, rather than his face.

"That is it," he said, rising with her. "We can wait out this deluge in my home, and I will return you to yours once I am certain you will not die of some terrible Edain disease."

"I hope that trade secret'll keep me dry, too, or this'll be a right miserable walk," she said.

* * *

Lorna's sister clearly wasn't happy about letting Thranduil walk off into the falling night with her, but at least the revelation of their (currently one-sided) marriage seemed to have mollified her a bit.

"Don't drop her," she said. "She's the only baby sister I've got."

"She will return to you in one piece," he assured, "and hopefully without a cold."

"I'll come back for cleanup, Jamie," Lorna said, trying to crane her head to look at her employer.

"You'll do no such thing," the man said. "Not in your condition. I'll ring you when we're open for business again. Until then, you stay dry and keep your feet warm."

She looked at her bare brown feet. "Right. Fine, Jamie, I'll see you when I see you. Mairead – same, I suppose. I really ought to get a mobile, if I'm going to be running about so much."

"Later," Mairead said firmly. "Remember, Lord Thranduil – don't drop her."

"I will _not_ , Mistress Mairead." They plunged out into the storm before she could say anything more.

It was still raging; if anything, it had grown worse, and if it was this intense this far inland, the coasts must be a nightmare for all living on them.

Thranduil did not share the Edain reaction to violent weather: they saw only inconvenience, not majesty. Just now the wind howled, the rain nearly a solid sheet of water, though none of it touched him or Lorna. There was such _power_ in a storm, a strength beyond even that of the Eldar, and it was as beautiful as it was terrible.

It was also, at the moment, nearly pitch-dark, the wind downright icy. He didn't mind, but Lorna was shivering, and he wrapped her in his coat as best he could while still holding her.

Lightning forked through the clouds, silver-bright, and she sucked in a startled breath. Thunderstorms were rare in Eire, and all the rarer this time of year. The clap of thunder followed almost immediately, so loud it made her jump in his arms.

"I've always loved storms," she said. "I probably wouldn't if I owned anything they could destroy, but I never have. There's this Metallica song called 'Ride the Lightning', which I guess is about being executed in an electric chair, but when I was a kid I thought it was actually about riding lightning. I always wanted to be able to just sit on a cloud and watch a storm from above. Whenever I've got you over to my place, I'll show you satellite photos."

He had no idea what either of those things were. Really, he knew so little about modern Edain – or any Edain. "There is much that you must show me of your world, for I did not understand a quarter of what you just said."

Lorna laughed, even as the clouds again lit up silver. "I'll start your crash-course on Tuesday," she said. "I've got an appointment for an ultrasound, and you're going with me. You'll actually be able to see the babies, more or less, and I _really_ don't want to go with Mairead again. She's…pushy."

 _That_ Thranduil could well believe. "Very well," he said. "I will go and terrorize people with you, as it seems that is all I am capable of doing in this village." While they were right to fear him in an abstract sense, it was nevertheless irritating. There would be no separating Lorna from them, so he would rather they not fear he would eat them if they turned their backs.

"That's the spirit," she said, and sneezed. That truly _was_ disturbing. "You know, I read somewhere that people sneeze with their eyes close because if we didn't, the force'v it'd pop our eyes out'v our heads."

He looked down at her. "That is disgusting, and given how frail your people are, I would not be surprised."

"Berk," she said, and poked the end of his nose.

Even with all the water, the walk didn't take long – although he noted that the level in the forest had risen yet further. Where once there was a creek there was now a shallow lake, rushing and churning through the trees. Only magic kept it from pouring through the door when he opened it, which was not precisely easy with his armful of Lorna.

"Thranduil, this place is too beautiful to be so empty," she said. "It'd make a great bunker for the end'v the world. If somebody drops a nuke, you might wind up with the whole village living in here."

"I do not know what a 'nuke' is," he said, heading for his bedroom, "but that is an appalling thought."

"It won't be if the zombie apocalypse ever happens," she said seriously, shoving a few damp tendrils of hair out of her face. In it were a few threads of pure silver, that even wet glinted in the lamplight. "Seriously, there is so much I need to catch you up on. You can't properly fear a zombie apocalypse if you don't know what a zombie _is_."

He shook his head as they entered his room, depositing her in an armchair before the hearth so he could stoke the fire. What, exactly, had he gotten himself into? "Do not overwhelm me," he said, adding some kindling. In truth, he had little interest in other Edain, but he suspected he was going to have to develop some, because Lorna did.

Lorna, who was shucking her wet trousers without a trace of self-consciousness. Her shirt, made of some red-and-black tartan material, was long enough to be a tunic, but somehow he doubted she would have cared even if it was not.

"Here, help me lay these out by the fire, will you?" she asked, struggling to pick them up and failing. "My stomach gets in the way'v everything anymore."

Thranduil laid them out on the hearth, and rose to fetch her one of his robes. It had been so long, so very, very long, since he'd had someone to care for, any welfare to look after but his own. Now there was another, and soon there would be three.

He had not known if Lorna would even wish him to be in the twins' lives, but mercifully, she seemed to expect it. It had been millennia since he'd raised a child, but surely he could do it again.

And this time, he would make certain their mother did not die.

When he returned to her, he found her unwinding her braid, and when she looked up at him, there was curiosity in her unsettling green eyes. "Why do I trust you, Thranduil?" she asked. "I don't trust _anybody_ , not really, not totally, so why do I trust you now? Did you bewitch me?"

"No," he said, although that wasn't strictly true; he _had_ pushed a little of his own desire into her mind the day they met, but he hadn't done it on purpose. "I think it merely that you know I would never harm you. Now get out of that wet shirt and put this on. And try not to sneeze on it."

* * *

The robe was the softest, warmest thing Lorna had ever worn, even if it was acres too large. Bundled up in it, a mug of hot cider in her hands (where did he get cider – and how?), she felt…strangely at home. Or at least, she thought that was what the feeling was. Until she went to live with Mairead, she'd never had a proper home – for the dump she'd spent her childhood in couldn't have been called a 'home' by anyone.

She'd sure as hell come a long way since – knocked up by a king who apparently wanted to be married to her, even if he _was_ a bit of a creeper about some things. Thranduil desperately needed socializing, that was for damn sure, but they could work on that later.

For now, she'd settle for finishing the cider, hitting the toilet ( _again_ ), and going to sleep. Having someone to sleep next to always made that easier.

* * *

She woke the next morning utterly miserable.

Her prediction of a cold had come true, in spite of the cordials Thranduil had forced on her. Her throat was raw, her sinuses completely clogged, and even with all the blankets and Thranduil's robe, she was freezing.

"Oh, fuck everything," she grumbled – and sneezed. Even that small amount of movement made her joints feel like they were full of crushed glass, and her voice was barely to be found.

"Would this be the 'cold' you were mentioning?" Thranduil asked from behind her.

With great difficulty, Lorna rolled to face him, trying to curl into a ball at the same time. "Yes," she said, and sneezed again. "Elves don't get sick, do they?"

"No," he said, kissing her forehead, and paused. "You are very warm."

"Fever," she explained. "Kids'll get them, too, unless – will they be born as humans, or Elves? In their…I dunno, default state?"

"As you are Edain, they will be Edain, though most likely with Elven ears."

"That'll be hard to explain," she said, and sneezed yet again. God she was cold, and Thranduil's body temperature was too low to make him an effective living heater. She'd have to have a word with Doc Barry before the woman met him, or she'd want to run all sorts of tests on him, which would be both creepy and invasive. "So wait, if you don't get sick, why d'you have so many remedies?"

"Because Elves _can_ be injured," he said, laying a hand on her forehead. "And those injuries can become infected. We are only immortal in that we do not age. While we are more difficult to kill than Edain, we can still die at the end of a sword."

"See, I didn't need to know that," she said, and she really didn't – thought of him being vulnerable in any way freaked her out more than it ought to.

"Few know I am here, Lorna," he said, pulling her closer, "and I strongly doubt any in your village would dare try to harm me."

Maybe not, but she wouldn't put it past some idiot to blab to the outside world, looking for their fifteen minutes of fame. But then again, it wasn't as though anyone would _believe_ them. Even a picture would just be dismissed as Photoshop. She was far from the only one in the world who didn't believe in anything.

* * *

Lorna slept again for a while, and when she woke, Thranduil brought her soup. She ate it off a tray, still in bed, like the posh ladies of _Downton Abbey_ , and wondered what her life had become.

She wondered if she ought to be creeped out by Thranduil. He'd married her, at least in his own mind, the day he met her – and apparently he'd been sort-of stalking her before that. Now here he was, taking care of her like they'd been married for years.

If he'd been human, she _would_ have been unsettled, but he wasn't. That sadness, that wistfulness in his pale eyes – he wasn't a creeper, he was just desperately lonely, and didn't really seem to understand much at all about humans. Clearly he didn't realize privacy was a thing.

"I got myself a TV," she said, her voice still sounding like she'd swallowed a pound of sand, "And Mairead gave me her old DVD player. When you take me home, I want you to come watch a movie with me. If I introduce you to my world bit by bit, it won't be overwhelming." He was going to watch _Shaun of the Dead_ , whether he liked it or not. And he'd better like it.

He added more wood to the fire, and came to sit by her feet. "Only if you allow me to teach you my language," he said.

"Would you?" Lorna hadn't been much use at school, and certainly hadn't enjoyed much of it, but she loved languages, and had an ear for them. She'd picked up a great deal of Russian in prison, and some Welsh, and she could read a fair bit of French, even if she couldn't speak it worth a damn.

"Of course I will," he said, rubbing her left foot. "It has been so long now since I have heard my tongue spoken by any save myself." Again there was that sadness, and Lorna didn't blame him at all. His entire existence was a goddamn tragedy.

"You know," she said, hitting upon what she hoped was a grand idea, "once I've learned some, we should teach the village. There's got to be a few that'd want to learn. I know you've not got any'v your own people here anymore, but from what I can gather, you've been part'v this village in name for hundreds'v years already – you might as well be one in truth, when you feel like it. I know that we die and you don't, but it's not like the stories'v you haven't been passed down for generations anyway."

She simply couldn't bear the thought of him being all alone, isolated in his beautiful, empty halls forever. True, if their kids chose to be Elves, he'd at least have them, but he – and they – would need more than that.

Lorna had always lived in a group. She had three siblings, and then her gang, and prison, and she and Liam had often knocked about with other people. She couldn't imagine how anyone could live on their own, and certainly not as long as Thranduil had. No wonder he was a little weird.

"Perhaps," he said. "If we can find any who would wish to try."

* * *

She was still sniffling and sneezing two days later, but at least she no longer wished she was dead. They had an ultrasound appointment to go to at noon.

Last night she'd made use of Thranduil's massive bathtub, which had been bloody amazing – the thing was bigger than a Jacuzzi, and let her sprawl out like a starfish.

Of course, since she'd gone to bed with her hair still damp, it was a nightmare, and now she sat at Thranduil's mahogany dressing-table, trying to comb it out. They'd stop by Mairead's so she could pick up some clothes, and then Thranduil would get his first course in modern medicine.

Lorna nearly dropped the comb when something fluttered in her abdomen. It was so alien, so _strange_ – there it was again. "Holy shit," she breathed, touching her stomach. "Thranduil, get over here – one'v them's kicking."

He emerged from the bathroom, swathed in a black robe, his silvery hair still damp. "What?"

"Come here, before they stop," she said, and grabbed his hand when he approached, laying it on her stomach. "One'v them's kickboxing. I hope they're not punching each other."

The sheer look of _wonder_ on his face startled her, and for the first time, she wondered if he'd had children before. Oh God, wasn't that a heartbreaking thought. She wanted to ask, yet she didn't dare – if he'd had a kid before, he or she was lost to him now, by death or by choice.

She looked down at his hand, his fingers so long and so white. Normally, white guys didn't catch her interest, but Thranduil was…well, _different_ , in nearly every sense of the word. He was a beautiful creature who she did not doubt could be very cold, if he chose, yet now his arctic eyes looked at her round stomach like it was the bloody Holy Grail.

"I didn't have my last one long enough to feel this," she said. "It's the strangest thing…I always knew they were in there, but I can _feel_ them now." It made it…more real. And, honestly, a little terrifying.

She was going to be someone's _Mam. Two_ someone's. Thank bloody God she had Mairead, or she'd be lost at sea.

"We'd best get on," she said. "Doc Barry knows where I live. If she finds out I've missed the appointment, I'll never hear the end'v it."

Thranduil rose with obvious reluctance, and went to dress while she finished wrestling with her hair. Eventually she just gave up, and threw it into an extremely messy braid.

When he reappeared, the contrast between them made her wince a bit. Lorna wasn't a bad-looking woman, but Thranduil looked like someone had breathed life into a statue, tall and strong and unfairly flawless. The tunic he wore was similar in design to the black one, but silver, his trousers some manner of soft grey velvet, and grey leather boots.

She looked at her own jeans and sturdy workman's boots, at her rumpled flannel shirt and the quilted hunting jacket she'd stolen from her brother-in-law when her own quit buttoning over her stomach. They were a study in contrasts, that was for damn sure.

They'd certainly grab the eye of the whole village. The thought nearly made her laugh.

"Let's go," she said, heaving herself off the chair.

* * *

Nobody was home when they reached Mairead's, everyone either at school or a work, so it was easy for Lorna to nip up to her room and dig out clean clothes.

She'd been slowly but surely personalizing the space. Mairead had bought her a bigger bed, so she could actually try to sleep with her growing stomach, and then she'd discovered the joys of internet shopping – specifically, Amazon.

The flat white walls were papered over with posters – nature shots, metal bands, and the TARDIS against a starry sky. Her nieces and nephews had been boggled hat she'd never seen _Doctor Who_ , and they'd been slowly marathoning their way through the old and new series ever since. Gran had made her a bright quilt of red and orange and yellow, and had tried to teach her to embroider pillow shams, but…well, the result wasn't anything she'd be bringing to any fairs.

It was her space, and hers alone. Never in all her life had Lorna had a room that was only hers, and she liked it. It was warm and dry, two things that were also rather novel. Yes, it was very different from Thranduil's posh bedroom, but it was _hers_ , filled with things bought with money she'd earned, not stolen.

Being a responsible adult really wasn't as bad as she'd always thought it would be.

She struggled into a fresh pair of knickers and jeans – maternity jeans, ugh – and swapped out her shirt for a black-and-purple flannel that wasn't a crumpled mess, even if it did have a scorch-mark near the bottom. (Who knew that irons had different settings? Not Lorna, and she'd found out the hard way why they were important.)

The sun was peeking through the clouds when she went down stairs, and found Thranduil avidly inspecting the refrigerator.

"How does this _work_?" he asked, taking out a green glass bottle of Mairead's fizzy mineral water.

"I don't know," she said. "I'm learning a lot about modern humanity, too. All I can tell you is it's powered by electricity." She grabbed his hand. "C'mon, we can't be late. You can ask Kevin about it later."

"Kevin?" he said, putting the water back and shutting the door.

"My brother-in-law. He knows all about mechanical shite." She all but dragged him out the door.

The walk to town wasn't long, but her back ached by the end of it anyway, and then they got to deal with the staring. Oh, the _staring_.

Main Street was neither large nor crowded. It held the pub, the Market, the village's only petrol station, a beauty parlor, and a few clothing shops that didn't do a great deal of business. It also held the surgery, which even from the outside looked surprisingly crowded.

Or perhaps not so surprisingly. Marks of the storm were still everywhere, even as a number of locals worked to erase them. The streets were still filthy with mud, which had especially built up in the gutters, and the bases of the power-poles were surrounded by twigs and leaves that had fetched up there during the flood. One of the Market's big plate-glass windows was boarded over with a big sheet of plywood, though she couldn't imagine how it had got broken.

In any event, there were more people about then usual, and every last one of them stared. She didn't wonder why; no doubt everyone who had been in the pub during the storm had told tales of their Elven visitor. Even those who hadn't yet seen Thranduil would at least have got a description – and if they hadn't known he was the one who knocked her up, they were about to find out.

She probably shouldn't find that quite so hilarious.

They pushed their way into the surgery, which was at standing-room only capacity. While not precisely small, it was no hospital; the village wasn't big enough to support one.

The walls of the waiting room were the same shade of beige she'd swear was mandatory in all medical facilities, but the walls were covered with photos taken by Doc Barry's husband, rather than bland watercolors. He was pretty good, too; there were several of the village at sunset, and the fields when the wildflowers were in bloom – and a spectacular one of Thranduil's forest, with all the oak trees turned red and orange in autumnal splendor.

There were a number of (rather uncomfortable) chairs, but at the moment, they were occupied by people with assorted broken limbs, three head wounds, and a dozen people who had to have the flu.

Of course the lost of them froze when she and Thranduil entered, and it was all she could do not to roll her eyes. "Oh, give over, the lot'v you," she sighed. "He's Thranduil, not the bloody Slender Man."

" _What_ is the Slender Man?" he asked.

"I'll have to introduce you to the Internet before I explain that one." In truth, the Internet was fairly new to Lorna, too; until she'd moved in with Mairead, she hadn't had access to it.

"Oh, joy," he deadpanned. "Contrary to what you all appear to believe, I will not eat you," he added, a little irritably.

Still nobody spoke, and Lorna sighed. "Well, you'll have to get used to him sooner or later, so you'd best start now."

Thankfully, her name was called before they could endure much more of _that_ awkwardness. They pushed through the crowd and followed one of Doc Barry's nurses, a woman nearly as tiny as Lorna, with a nose ring and a jet-black pixie cut. Nuala, that was her name; Lorna had only ever seen her once.

The exam rooms were all rather cramped, and the ultrasound room was no exception; Thranduil had no choice but to stand in the corner. He eyed the machine with interest, and she was pleased he seemed intrigued by technology, even if it _was_ rather amusing – all the more so because she'd had that reaction to some of it herself. Computers and smartphones had been entirely new to her (along with irons, damn the things). She'd had something of a fight with what she considered to be Mairead's needlessly complex microwave not long after moving in.

"I felt one'v them kick this morning," she said, hoisting herself up onto the exam table with a grunt. "If they keep on like that, I'll not get a proper night's sleep until they're born."

"It's about time one'v them gave you a boot," Nuala said. Amusingly, she, like Siobhan, didn't seem fazed by Thranduil at all. "Up with your shirt – let's see what they're doing in there."

That was easier said than done, but once she'd managed it, Lorna laid back on the table. She'd had one of these already, so she was prepared for how cold the gel was before it got smeared all over her stomach.

"What is that for?" Thranduil asked.

"Makes it easier to get a reading," Nuala said, holding up the boxy thing that would run over Lorna's stomach. "All right, Lorna, hold your breath."

Ugh, she hated this part. Hold it she did, while the rectangle passed over her stomach and Nuala taped away at her keyboard. The twins were basically still two lumps, but now they had recognizable arms and legs. Even as she watched, one of them kicked the other, who kicked back.

" _God_ , that doesn't feel half weird," she said. "I hope that doesn't mean they'll do nothing but fight once they're born."

"They've only got so much room in there," Nuala said, still tapping away. "They don't like sharing. I think they'll have their Da's height," she added, her dark eyes flicking to Thranduil. "They're already big for their age."

A sliver of ice worked its way into Lorna's heart. "Does that mean I'll have trouble having them?"

"Depends on how much bigger they get. If we have to, we'll send you to Dublin for a C-section."

"What is that?" Thranduil asked warily.

"Surgery," Nuala said. "It's common enough. They'll make an incision here" – she drew a line across Lorna's abdomen with her finger – "take the babies out, and staple her back up again."

"Oh, bloody great," Lorna sighed.

"You can _do_ that?" he asked, incredulous.

"Oh, we can do a lot more than that," Nuala said. "You've missed out on a lot, living in your forest. We can replace people's hearts if we've got to. A C-section's nothing to worry about, though she'll be in hospital a few days to recover, and she'll have to be careful a while after that."

He looked so disturbed that Lorna had to laugh. "If it helps, Thranduil, a lot'v this is new to me, too. It's a learning experience for the both'v us."

"I wish I had any healers left, to witness this," he said. "They would have been fascinated."

Again there was that sorrow in his voice, and Lorna really wished she could actually do something about it. How could _all_ of his people go off and leave him, knowing he'd be all alone? Why hadn't at least a few of them stayed?

For that matter, how could _he_ stay? Yeah, he'd been born here, but staying in your own world couldn't be that great if you were the only one of your kind in it. To knock about in those beautiful, empty caves for so long, probably swamped every minute by memories of his departed people…it was a wonder he wasn't completely insane.

But maybe…maybe he _wasn't_ the only one. Maybe there was some other, very lonely Elf on another continent, also thinking they were the last…there had to be some way to find one. She'd meant what she said – his home was too beautiful to be so empty.

One way or another, she'd find more people to put in it.

* * *

Be afraid, Thranduil. Lorna is a determined little critter. Then again, she's got to be stubborn, if she's going to be a match for you.

Title means "learning" in Irish. Reviews are the stuff of dreams.


	4. páirtí leapa gach rud

In which trouble looms.

* * *

The healer with the strange machine printed Lorna a picture of the two blobs that were their children, which she insisted on showing to everyone in the pub. She all but dragged him out into the sunshine, beyond elated, clutching the picture as though it was made of pure gold.

Thranduil wasn't quite sure _why_ , given that they were, well, _blobs_ , but it appeared to be yet another Edain thing he didn't understand. It gave her joy, which was what really mattered.

She led him to the pub, sneezing a few more times along the way (and really, _what_ purpose could that serve?), but paused.

"What is it?" he asked.

"That car's not from here," she said, pointing to a silvery…thing. "Might be best if we avoid the pub, for now. I'd rather nobody who isn't local know you're here."

Quite honestly, he would prefer that, too. He had dealt with m more than enough staring for one day.

"Tell you what," she said, tucking the picture into the pocket of her jacket, "come to my house and we can watch _Shaun of the Dead_ in the lounge, while no one's home."

He wondered if he was going to regret this.

* * *

It occurred to Lorna that before she could have Thranduil watch a movie, she had to explain what a movie _was_. It was surprisingly difficult, because apparently Elves didn't even have _plays_.

"It's a story," she said, digging her keys out of her pocket, "acted out by people. Basically, what you're watching isn't real, but people acting parts from something somebody wrote."

"So they are not _really_ zombies?" Thranduil asked, a little dryly.

"Not yet," she said. "It'll happen eventually, and then we'll all be down in your caves while the surface world falls apart."

"That remains a horrific thought," he said, following her in once she got the door open.

"It'd be amazing and you know it." She shed her coat, and struggled to shed her boots, almost tripping over the right. The ultrasound she stuck to the fridge with a Hello Kitty magnet. "Shoes off here, or Mairead'll kill us both."

Thranduil wanted to scoff, but he didn't quite dare. Lorna's sister reminded him of the warrior-women he had occasionally run across in his travels when he was young. Besides, having been married once before, he knew the importance of family-by-marriage.

He hesitated to tell Lorna of Anameleth and Legolas, though he didn't know why. She herself had been wed once before, and even isolated as he was, he knew the Edain didn't consider re-marriage the sacrilege that the Eldar did – or had. He was the only one left now, so he supposed he made all the rules.

"All right," Lorna said, leading him into a room with a dark-green divan – a very large divan, that wrapped around two sides of the room. "Let's begin your education."

* * *

Mairead was deeply troubled, and she knew she wasn't the only one.

She drove home as fast as she dared, praying Lorna was there. Her hands weren't quite steady on the wheel, nor was her foot on the gas. Of all the rotten luck.

When she pulled into the driveway, she slapped the e-brake almost before the car had stopped, and hurried into the house. The door was unlocked, but there were two pairs of boots beside the wall – Lorna's, and some of extremely fine grey leather, that Mairead could only imagine belonging to one person.

 _Shit_.

The TV was on, very loud, and when she went into the lounge, she found something she never, ever would have thought she would see:

Lorna and _Lord bloody Thranduil_ were snuggled up on the sofa, watching _Shaun of the Dead._

What.

"This is absolutely disgusting," he said. "How can these film-makers make such carnage look so real?"

"That," Lorna said, "is the magic of special effects."

Mairead shook her head. She couldn't even. "I need a word with the pair'v you," she said, marching over to the DVD player and hitting the pause button.

"Oi, you've still got your shoes on!" Lorna said, pointing an accusing finger at her feet.

Mairead rolled her eyes. "I was in a hurry. Lord Thranduil, apparently old Orla's actually had guests the day'v the storm, and one'v them saw you. They've been asking after you ever since, but I don't think anyone's told them anything."

Her sister paled, but visibly rallied. "So what if they did see him? Sure, he's creepy, but it's not like he's got a third eye on his forehead or something. He could pass for human to someone who didn't know any better."

"Not with those ears, he can't," Mairead retorted. "Lord Thranduil, you'd best stay out'v town until they've gone. Most people wouldn't believe what you are if you were standing in front'v them, but these two sound like crackpots who would. Nobody in the village'll rat you out, but you might find a few poking around your forest anyway."

He didn't look at all pleased by that, and she couldn't blame him. It really was terrible luck – _nobody_ ever came through their sleepy little village. It was one of the sort that was shrinking, not growing, with the majority of its young people moving away to find jobs. It wasn't near enough any tourist destinations to garner many tourists; usually the only people old Orla's inn were those who had got lost on their way to somewhere else, and it was far past the end of tourist season.

"I thank you for the warning, Mistress Mairead," he said. "Trust me, no one will find me."

She wasn't quite sure she wanted to know what would happen to anyone who did. Lorna had assured her he'd never killed anyone, but _still_. That didn't mean he wouldn't start, if he felt it necessary to protect his secret and his forest.

* * *

Big Jamie was about ready to punch these two. Well, the man, anyway; he couldn't hit a woman, no matter how unwittingly obnoxious she was.

They were an American couple, twenty-three and twenty-four respectively, and unlike most strangers, they were actually here on _purpose._

"We're paranormal investigators," the man – Bryan – said. He was brown-haired and tanned, with the whitest teeth Big Jamie had ever seen outside of a pensioner's dentures. "We read that you've got a local legend about one of the Fair Folk."

Big Jamie dearly wondered _where_ they read it. Everyone in the village had known about Lord Thranduil for generations, but he was rarely spoken of, and certainly not to outsiders.

He snorted. "Lad, if you're going to investigate myths and stories, you'll be a long time looking for what doesn't exist," he said, polishing a mug a little more vigorously than necessary.

"But we saw him," the woman – Jennifer – said, pulling out her phone.

Big Jamie very nearly swore. She'd actually caught a picture of Lord Thranduil striding through the rain, perfectly dry himself, with those bloody ears of his clearly visible.

"That's no fairy," he said, thinking fast. "That's just Jimmy. He's got that same thing for plastic surgery that Michael Jackson did. He's a bit weird in the head, to be honest."

The girl seemed undeterred. She too had unnaturally white teeth, and her blond-streaked hair was just as unnaturally sleek. "Then why is his hair dry, even in all that rain?"

Again, Big Jamie thought furiously. "Because it's not really his hair – it's a wig. It _is_ wet, only you can't tell. I saw him without it once, and he's bald as a baby." He prayed Lord Thranduil would forgive him for _that_ one, should he ever hear of it. "If you're going to travel in Ireland, you'd best realize that every village has at least one right eccentric. Granted, Jimmy's weirder than most, but they're all a bit touched in the head."

Jennifer looked disappointed, but not disappointed enough, and he had a sinking feeling that they were going to keep digging. Somebody had to warn Lorna to keep Lord Thranduil in his forest, until someone could find a way to get rid of these two.

* * *

Thranduil left at dark, and Lorna was in no good mood. She couldn't go with him – she had more appointments that she couldn't miss – and he couldn't safely come out of his forest until the strangers had gone.

She'd asked him why he couldn't just hunt them down and wipe their memories, but he said it would only work inside his forest. The two would leave on their own, probably sooner rather than later.

Meanwhile, Lorna sat on the sofa, moodily eating ice cream straight out of the tub. He was supposed to go her Lamaze class on Friday, and if this pair kept him from it, she'd lamp both their lights out and leave them tied up in Big Jamie's beer cellar until it was over.

 _Damn_ it. He was less likely to want to come into the village if he thought he might be discovered. He'd go back to being isolated in the forest save for her, and eventually the twins. She wanted to show him the world outside his woods, wanted him to learn some of the things she was learning alongside her. In a very real sense, she'd been outside of the loop herself, always having been so impoverished and/or homeless. Her generation had supposedly grown up living and breathing technology, but she sure as hell hadn't. Lorna hadn't even touched a computer until she moved in with Mairead, and she still didn't have a mobile. Some aspects of the modern world were as much a mystery to her as they were to Thranduil.

And they were supposed to be figuring it out together, dammit. If the strangers weren't out of town by tomorrow night, they were each getting a boot up their arse.

Lorna got little sleep that night, mostly because the twins were apparently knocking the stuff out of each other in her uterus. She woke in an even worse mood, not helped by her annoyingly decaf tea. _God_ , she was never doing this again. Such clean living absolutely sucked.

She was too restless to loaf about the house, so she swapped her pyjama trousers for jeans, grabbed her ultrasound picture off the fridge, and waddled her way into town. (And Christ, she was actually _waddling_. The next three months were going to be a _nightmare_.)

She saw the strange little silver car parked outside the pub, and her eyes narrowed. _Don't do it, Lorna_ , she told herself. She'd show Big Jamie and the regulars her ultrasound, and she'd behave herself. Surely she could manage that.

The pub still had all the windows open that _could_ open, letting in the fresh, chilly air, and letting out some of the mildew smell. She wondered how long it would take to get the floor fixed.

The strangers were sitting at the bar, talking to Big Jamie, who looked annoyed. Lorna did her best to ignore them, and went to rescue him, slapping the ultrasound on the counter.

"They've already started beating each other up," he said. "I hope that's not a bad sign. If they're kicking each other in utero, Christ knows what they'll be like when they're born."

He laughed, brightening immediately, and held the picture up to the light. "Christ, they're big."

"I know," she grumbled, struggling up onto a stool. "Nuala says I might have to go to Dublin for a C-section. I haven't told Mairead – she'll piss herself."

"Boys or girls?" the stranger-woman asked – American, by her accent, and she sounded perfectly nice, which made Lorna feel rather bad about still wanting to kick her.

"One'v each," she said instead. "They've still got three months to finish cooking."

"Their dad must be glad to see that," the man said.

Lorna had a brief flash of panic. "He is," she said, hoping like hell they wouldn't ask any more questions. "How'd you wind up here, though? We're not exactly a tourist destination."

"We're amateur paranormal investigators," the woman said, smiling. God but her teeth were white. It was a little scary. "I'm Jennifer, and this is Bryan, my boyfriend. We've read that you have one of the Fair Folk around here, living in those woods."

Time to lie. Lorna snorted. "What, those out north'v town? I've been up there a few times – there's nothing but trees and about seven thousand squirrels. I wouldn't go in, if I was you – there's no paths, and it'd be really easy to get lost."

"Locals have, from time to time," Big Jamie said, following her lead. "And it's easier to freeze to death on an Irish night than you'd think."

The pair were visibly disappointed. "You've really never seen _anything_?" Bryan asked.

"Nothing supernatural," she said. "I came out with six ticks on my legs once, though."

Jennifer shuddered, and Lorna hoped like hell that would be enough. If they went to the forest, she doubted it would end well, even if Thranduil _did_ wipe their memories.

"If it's ghosts or whatever that you're after, your best bet'd actually be Dublin," she added. "I grew up there, and Trinity's said to be haunted. As for Fair Folk, it's Scotland you'd be wanting, not Ireland. If they even exist, they wouldn't stay in a country this crowded."

"We couldn't afford that until next year," Bryan said gloomily. "Maybe we'll go up to the woods anyway. We can take some pretty pictures, at least."

 _Shit_.

Lorna had no idea what to do. She ought to get up to the forest and warn Thranduil before the Americans got a chance to head that way themselves, but she simply couldn't walk fast enough.

And now she'd just wee'd herself.

Wait, _what_? No, that wasn't wee…

Oh, shit.

"Jamie," she said, her voice high and strangled, "I think my waters'v just broken."

He paled. "Lorna, it's—"

"Too early? I know. Doc Barry said twins were usually premature, but – fuck, Jamie, what do I _do_?" He had three kids, he had to have some idea.

"I'll ring Doc Barry," he said, tripping over his own feet as he ran for the phone.

"If you haven't been feeling any contractions yet, you should be fine," Jennifer said soothingly. "There's plenty of time to get you to a hospital. You said you're what, six months? With good antenatal care, your children will be okay."

"Are you a doctor?" Lorna asked, fighting her rising panic and losing.

"Pediatric nurse. Three months is pretty premature, but any competent hospital ought to be able to take care of the three of you just fine. Meanwhile, let's get you lying down somewhere."

Lorna had absolutely no idea how that would help anything, but she wasn't the one who knew what she was doing. She slid off the stool, grimacing at the feel of her wet jeans, her heart lurching in her chest. God, she wanted Thranduil, and with these two here, she couldn't have him. Not that there was any way to get ahold of him even if they hadn't been.

Jennifer helped her up onto at able, holding her hand, and oh, how Lorna wished she could hate her. She wished she could hate them both, but they were too damn genuinely concerned. _Why_ did they have to actually be _nice_?

Big Jamie came hurrying over, still white as a sheet. "I've run Doc Barry and Mairead," he said. "Doc's sending over the ambulance to take you to Dublin."

Lorna groaned. "You called my _sister_? Sure God, Jamie, I can't deal with that on top'v everything else!"

"She can bring everyone else as needs to go," he said pointedly.

Oh.

"They can't _all_ go," she said, just as pointedly, and hissed as sudden pain tore through her. It wasn't unendurable, but it hurt nonetheless. " _Shit_ , either that was a contraction, or I really need to fart."

Bryan choked back a laugh, and Jennifer kicked him. "There's no hurry," she said. "Your family will have time to follow. With twins, it's usually a long labor."

"Sure I didn't need to hear that," Lorna groaned.

"In your case, that's a good thing," Jennifer said, squeezing her hand. "You'll be safe in the hospital by the time they're ready to come out."

The wail of sirens approached – really, that was rather unnecessary – and the ambulance skidded to a halt outside the window. The driver and Nuala actually trundled a damn _gurney_ out the back, which also seemed like overkill, but at this point Lorna was hardly going to complain.

"I guess they _really_ don't like sharing, if they want out this early," Nuala said, as soon as they'd burst through the door.

"At least neither'v them's tried to strangle the other yet," Lorna grunted, as another wave of pain passed through her. God _damn_ she wanted Thranduil, because no matter what Jennifer had to say, she was terrified. Yeah, Doc Barry had said twins could be premature, but she'd meant like a month, not two and a half. Jennifer didn't seem at all worried, but Lorna was sweaty and dizzy and ready to pee herself, which at least no one would notice, given how wet (and cold) her jeans were.

She let herself get manhandled onto the gurney, mostly because she couldn't actually help, and grit her teeth against another contraction. They weren't supposed to be coming this close together yet, right? _Shit_. If she popped these kids out in the ambulance, she'd kill someone. She wasn't sure _who_ , but _someone_.

* * *

Mairead's heart was just about crosswise when she ran across the fields to Lord Thranduil's forest. As much as she wanted to follow Lorna straightaway, he needed to know what was going on.

She hesitated briefly at the forest's edge – she had, after all, been told her entire life it was too dangerous to enter. But it was broad daylight now, the trees like beautiful torches, and she had a mission, dammit.

"Lord Thranduil?" she called, stepping under the canopy. She had no idea where he lived in here, or how to find him. "Lord Thranduil, I need to talk to you. Lorna's gone into premature labor – I've come to take you to Dublin."

No answer. _Dammit_. She really needed to get him a mobile, and find some way for him to keep it charged.

"Lord Thranduil – oh. There you are."

There he was indeed, tall and terrifying, swathed in his black coat. At least it looked semi-normal, if extremely posh.

"Take this," she said, holding out a hair-tie, "and tie your hair back so it covers your ears. We're going to Dublin."

Take it he did, his fingers so very unnervingly long. "It is too soon for her to birth those children," he said, pulling his hair behind his shoulders. Though his face was like a porcelain mask, there was worry in his creepy eyes.

"If she can hold on until they reach hospital, they'll be fine," she said, and hoped she was right. "She'll want you there, but you've got to try to act like one'v us, if you can. Not that anyone'd believe you are what you are, but still. Better safe than sorry."

He said nothing, but he followed her. With his ears hidden, he was still imposing and creepy, but at least he could pass for human.

"All right, when we get to the hospital, let me talk," she said. "They'll want paperwork, so I'll do that. Say you're her boyfriend, not her husband, or they'll wonder why you're not the one doing it. All you've got to do is sit and wait to see if they'll let you into the delivery room."

"Why would they not?" he asked.

"If they give her a C-section, they'll not let anyone in. She'd either be drugged or unconscious anyway, so she'd not know if we _were_ there," Mairead said, digging her car keys out of her purse.

"There is a very strong chance the twins will have my ears," he said. "I hope that will not be a problem."

She groaned. "Well, they'll be so small that I hope nobody'll notice. A baby this premature would probably fit in your hand, if not in mine."

When she turned, she found him eying her SUV with visible unease. "Come on," she said. "It's an Explorer, not a monster." She hopped in, turning it on, but he was noticeably hesitant when he got in himself.

"Seatbelt," she ordered. "And be glad I don't drive like Lorna. There's a reason she's not allowed to use my car."

* * *

It had been centuries since Thranduil had been truly terrified, but he was now – and not just because he feared for Lorna and the children. By the time they reached what Mairead called a motorway, he decided that cars were one Edain thing he could definitely do without. Nothing, he was sure, was meant to travel so fast.

And if this was how Mairead drove, he never, ever wanted to ride with Lorna. The woman wove and dodged her way around all the other cars, racing more swiftly than the rest of them, swearing rather like Lorna whenever anyone got in her way.

"Is the city going to be like this?" he asked.

"City'll be worse. I'll get us there in one piece."

Perhaps she would, but only after leaving broken things – and people – in her wake.

* * *

Thranduil, Lorna decided, was an absolute dead man.

Lying in the back of an ambulance, an oxygen mask on her face, lacking both boots and trousers, with great, dragging pains tearing through her at alarmingly close intervals – why would anyone _want_ to do this? This was all his fault, the bastard, and he wasn't even here to let her break his hand.

"Hang on, Lorna," Nuala said. "You're doing fine."

"Bloody easy for you to say," Lorna snarled. "You're not the one – _Christ_ , how has Mairead done this four times? And _why_?" It felt like someone was trying to hacksaw through her gut.

"Couldn't tell you that one," Nuala said, adjusting her oxygen mask. "Just keep breathing. I'm sure Mairead'll drag Thranduil by the hair if she has to."

God, there was a terrifying thought. Lorna had no doubt at all that she'd do it, though she also doubted it would be necessary. Thranduil would come all on his own.

 _That_ could end badly.

"Nuala, when we're there, you've got to corral him when he turns up," she groaned. The oxygen was making her even dizzier, but at this point it was welcome. "You don't even understand how unprepared he is for Dublin. This could go so, _so_ badly wrong. _Christ_ , why'd he have to knock me up with _twins_?" A normal baby she could have just had at the surgery, no hospital trip needed.

"Technically, that's your fault," Nuala said, her warm fingers pressing over Lorna's pulse. "Blame your ovaries for dropping two eggs at once, and I need you to breathe deeper, Lorna. Try to relax."

Oh, right, like _that_ was going to happen. She was cold, she was in pain, and the village was fifty miles from Dublin – God knew how long it would take to get there.

Yeah, Thranduil was a dead man.

* * *

An ambulance went screaming down the M7, scattering the cars before it. A dark red Ford Explorer, weaving through traffic rather like the motorway was a pinball machine, came up behind it, followed by a silvery Prius, a battered green Jeep, four motorcycles, a rusting hulk that had once been a Dodge Dart, and a black minivan stuffed far past capacity. Half the village was following Lorna to the hospital, because where she went, so did Lord Thranduil, and _someone_ had to keep him out of trouble Nobody thought for a second that he could handle that himself.

* * *

By the time they reached the hospital, Lorna wasn't having contractions so much as one long, endless note of pain. The only speech she was capable of was a litany of cursing.

She was going to kill Thranduil. She really, really was.

* * *

Shelagh Reilly was bored.

She'd thought working the triage desk of a big A& E would be exciting, like in all those American shows, but the reality of it was far more boring.

Or had been, anyway.

An unfamiliar ambulance pulled up outside, offloading a gurney containing a young, very tiny pregnant woman, cursing so loud Shelagh could hear her all the way through the door.

A tall redheaded woman came rushing up from the car park, followed by an even taller man – possibly the most attractive man Shelagh had ever seen, his long hair so blond it was nearly silver. And behind _them_ were about thirty or forty other people, all following the gurney in.

"I'll kill you," the little woman snarled, gripping the blond man's hand in a way that made Shelagh wince. "I'll snap your spout off and shove it up your damn arse!"

The redhead burst out laughing, and tried to smother it behind her hand.

The nurse accompanying the gurney rolled her eyes, though she too was laughing. "She's twenty-nine, six months along, with twins. First labor, and her contractions are – well, pretty much continuous, but she's nowhere near dilated enough."

"D'you hear that?" the patient snapped, glaring up at the blond man. "You and your demon spawn broke my snatch!"

Shelagh choked on her own spit. She couldn't laugh, _shouldn't_ laugh, and yet she couldn't help it. "If you're the da, you can go on back," she said, tapping information into the computer. "The rest'v you…." God, where could she put the rest of them?" "The cafeteria's the only place you'll all fit."

"I'm her sister," the redhead said. "I'm going with her, too. Her boyfriend's English, he's not got a clue how things work here."

Shelagh waved her away. This, she thought, might get _really_ interesting.

* * *

The hospital would have been overwhelming, if Thranduil had let himself focus on it, but he didn't. He _couldn't_ , not when Lorna was all but crushing his hand. For an Edain, she was shockingly strong.

She wouldn't let go even when a number of white-garbed healers approached. "He got me into this," she snarled. "He can damn well suffer, too."

The man who appeared to be the head healer looked at him, and Thranduil shrugged. "Gainsaying her would not be wise," he said.

"Then follow me," the healer sighed.

They were led into a room rather like those in the village's healing wards, though much larger, and Thranduil had to fight not to break the man's neck when he removed Lorna's undergarment to peer between her legs. That was his _job_.

"I'm afraid you'll need a Caesarian, Miss Donovan," he said. "Sir, you can't be in the surgical room."

Lorna released his hand, albeit reluctantly. "You'd best be here when I wake up, or I'll murder you in your sleep."

"I will be with your sister, Lorna," he said, as soothingly as he could. "I will come to you as soon as I am able."

It took all his willpower not to follow her, but he didn't. Instead he went to Mairead, and prayed to whatever Vala might still be listening that he was not about to lose his wife.

* * *

Lord Thranduil's pacing was going to drive Mairead insane.

It was what all expectant fathers did, especially the first time, but _still_. He was worse about it than anyone she'd ever seen. If there was one thing she'd learned about her sister in the last nine month, it was that Lorna was tougher than old shoe leather. She _had_ to be, in order to have survived the wreck that killed her husband in the first place. And if those twins were anything like either parent, they'd be just fine.

He was freaking everyone else out, too. The waiting-room had a large number of people not from the village, and all of them were watching him warily, this agitated blond giant with eyes like ice. Lord Thranduil might not kill people, but Mairead had no doubt at all that he _could_ , if he wanted to.

And _that_ made her nervous. On the off chance something should happen to Lorna, Mairead really didn't want to know what he would do.

"Will you calm down?" she said eventually. "My last was a C-section. They've been at it about half an hour – another ten minutes and they'll come tell us she's fine."

"You cannot be sure of that," he said tersely.

"I can't be _sure_ 'v anything, but I'm close on this. Lorna and those sprogs'll be _fine_ , so sit down before you give someone heart failure."

His glare made her quail, but he sat anyway, tense and ramrod-straight, staring at nothing.

For the first time, she wondered just how he'd conned Lorna into sleeping with him the day they met. Lorna wasn't that sort – she'd only ever gone to bed with Liam, and that was well after they'd known one another. Had he bewitched her somehow? He'd said he could wipe memories, so it stood to reason he could manipulate them, too. Did he somehow manage the Elf version of date rape, and Lorna hadn't minded?

Had Lorna even worked it out?

Oh, he seemed to genuinely care about her, in some way, but _still_. That just wasn't how people were meant to go about things. Once everything was safely over, Mairead was confronting him with it, because if she was right, that was just wrong.

Eventually, a tall, dark-haired nurse appeared, and called her name.

"It's all done," she said, leading them down a corridor that smelled too much like disinfectant. "Little boy and little girl, as healthy as they can be at this stage. They'll need to stay in pediatric for at least a fortnight, just to be safe, but there've been no complications at all."

"Thank bloody God," Mairead sighed. "How is she?"

"Asleep, at the moment, but you can go see her. She ought to wake up in about half an hour."

They arrived at a recovery room, white and sterile, the lights muted. Through the small window, they could see the sun setting red over Dublin, the buildings casting long shadows over streets and cars.

Lorna was indeed asleep, and looked even smaller than she actually was. She was a little person, but she projected such energy that it was easy to think she was taller. Her long black braid had come half undone, her fringe stuck to her forehead with dried sweat, and her skin ashy.

Lord Thranduil moved forward before Mairead could, taking Lorna's tiny right hand – it looked even tinier in his. Yes, there was _something_ there, all the more obvious when he sat on the edge of the bed and leaned down to kiss her forehead, but there was no way he actually _loved_ her, because he simply hadn't known her long enough.

"Well, that's adorable," the nurse said, and shut the curtain before she left them.

Mairead pulled up a chair, sitting at the left side of the bed. "Lord Thranduil, how the hell did you seduce my baby sister?" she asked. "Sleeping with somebody she's just met isn't like her."

"She felt my desire," he said, still looking at Lorna, "and mirrored it. Which I did not do out of conscious will, before you ask. You must understand, Mistress Mairead, Eldar do not lightly lie with another, either. It was the first time she had seen me, but not the first time I had seen her. And yes, she has made me very aware that your people would count that as 'creepy'."

He looked at her. "I married her, Mistress Mairead, because I knew that I could love her, given time. I had not planned on telling _her_ that, however, until I managed to earn her love in return. She has assured me I may still court her, so long as I no longer keep secrets where she is concerned."

"And have you?" Mairead asked suspiciously.

"No. Where Lorna is concerned, I have none. Yes, there is much I have not told her, but I have six thousand years worth of things to tell. That will take rather a long time."

"I _knew_ it," someone said, from the other side of the curtain – a woman. An _American_ woman.

Lord Thranduil froze, and Mairead felt the blood drain from her face, but Lorna, her voice thick with sleep, spoke for them both:

"Oh, fuck everything."

* * *

Yeah, things couldn't remain simple for long.

Title means "fuck everything" in Irish. As always, your reviews give me love.


	5. Trioblóidí

In which Bryan and Jennifer continue to cause problems, Thranduil is sweet (in a slightly creepy way), and the villagers remain quite protective of him.

* * *

Mairead, for once, had no idea what to do. None whatsoever.

Lord Thranduil, on the other hand, didn't seem to share that problem at all. He rose, just a touch too smoothly, and his expression made her heart lurch – it was just this side of murderous.

He pulled back the curtain, revealing Jennifer _and_ Bryan, both as delighted as children. Jennifer was holding a small red video camera – which Lord Thranduil grabbed and crushed with one hand.

"In here, both of you," he said, snatching each by the collar and jerking them further into the room, shutting the door behind them.

"And what, precisely, were you planning to do with that?" he asked, low and terrible. "Put it on that Internet? Lead more thrill-seekers to my forest, until I do not dare leave? Would you truly make my children and I prisoners in our own home?"

Judging by both their expressions, neither had thought of that. "But," Jennifer said, licking her bloodless lips, "but people should know about you."

"People _do_ know about me, you wretched child," he snapped, his pale eyes burning like mercury. "They are the only people I _wish_ to know of me. I have no desire at all to wind up in some government facility, dissected."

Lorna, Mairead thought dazedly, must have been showing him _The X-Files_. With these two, that might actually work. It might be the only thing that _would_ work. Anyone who would believe in Elves without knowing the existed was probably also a conspiracy theorist.

"We just – we wanted to see you," Jennifer said, her voice very small.

"And now you have," Lord Thranduil said shortly. "However, if you tell anyone else, I will hunt you down and kill you both."

" _Thranduil_ ," Lorna said muzzily. "No killing people. Remind me to make you watch the second _Terminator_ movie."

The poor kids looked like they were about to faint, but Mairead couldn't feel _too_ sorry for them. Not when they could still potentially create a disaster. "We, um, we won't," Bryan said – and fled, dragging his girlfriend after him.

Mairead sighed. "They will," she said, "but without evidence, nobody'll believe them." She hoped, anyway. There were a lot of crazy people in the world.

* * *

Thranduil was in no good mood when he went to view the twins – tailed by Big Jamie and Nuala.

"Let us ask the questions, if you've got any," she said quietly. "You're foreign, remember? We're your…interpreters, sort'v thing."

He had to marvel a little at these people – they had only met him five months ago, yet they were extremely protective of him. Perhaps there was some benefit to being a local legend.

Certainly, right now, he needed them, for this hospital was unlike anything he had ever seen – the tiny healers' ward in the village hadn't been nearly preparation enough. Edain, everywhere, garbed either in white coats or soft, pale trousers and shirts, moving hither and yon, not a single step without purpose. The walls, flat and white, reflected unpleasant light of the overhead lamps in a way that made his eyes hurt, and while he couldn't identify many of the smells, he liked none of them.

It was nothing at all like the healing wards of the Eldar, with their soft beds and myriad herbs – this was stark and impersonal, and he wished his small family need not linger.

And yet, when they reached what Big Jamie called the pediatric ward, he saw why they must.

Behind a window, both of his children sat in small glass boxes, clear tubes up their noses, and more attached to their limbs. They were so _tiny_ …Mairead was right – one could easily fit in his hand.

"Why are there blue lamps above them?" he asked.

"They were probably born jaundiced," Big Jamie said. "My youngest was. Means their livers aren't working right, but something in blue light fixes that."

"They look so fragile," Thranduil said, laying his right hand on the window.

"Just now, they are," Nuala said. "It's why they've got to stay here, for now. One'v those tubes up their noses is oxygen, so they've not got to try to breathe on their own, and the other's a feeding-tube. The one in their arms, that's saline, so they don't get dehydrated. Basically, an incubator's like an external uterus, so they finish cooking, so to speak."

"I had no idea Edain had advanced so much," he said, half to himself. "May I hold them?"

"Not quite yet," Nuala said. "Their immune systems're non-existent just now. Maybe tomorrow, once everyone's certain they're stable. Once they are, the staff'll want you to hold them as much as you can, though – nobody knows why, but premature babies do better when they're held. I'll have the staff bring you a cot, so you can stay in Lorna's room."

"I will not sleep for several days," he said, turning to her.

She fixed him with a very stern look. "You've got to pretend you do," she said, quietly but firmly. "And pretend you need to eat as much as a human. You're meant to be one'v us here, remember? Doctors and nurses pay more attention than most people – if you don't act like one'v us, they'll notice. And then they'll wonder."

 _That_ was aggravating. Oh well. It would hardly kill them.

* * *

Lorna had no idea how long she slept, but when she woke, she was high as the stars.

For a moment, she couldn't remember where she was, but the tubes in her arms and the scratchy hospital sheets let her know soon enough. While her abdomen wasn't sore, it felt… _alien_ , and not only because it was empty. "What day is it?" she asked, her voice little more than a faint rasp.

"Wednesday," Thranduil said. "You've only been asleep for seven hours."

She looked at him. "Feels like seven hundred years," she said. _He_ didn't look at all tired, the bastard. "I am never doing that again. We're doing to have to hope birth control actually works. How're the twins?"

"Fine, according to Nuala. We might be able to hold them tomorrow." He took her hand, folding his long fingers around it. "You scared me, little Lorna," he said. "Don't do that again."

"Not my fault," she said, groping with her free hand for the button that would let her raise the bed. She was reminded, far too much, of the _last_ time she'd been in hospital – when she'd lost a pregnancy, not been delivered of one. She'd _hurt_ , so, so much, because morphine couldn't do a thing for the ache in her heart.

But now she looked at Thranduil, who unlike Liam was very alive. Even in the low light of the room, his pale eyes seemed to glow, and the smooth planes and angles of his face were somewhat more relaxed. To her, he looked rather wrong with all his silvery hair pulled back, mostly because it was so unlike him.

"What are we, Thranduil?" she croaked. She'd always sworn that when she had a family, it would be with someone she loved – but, while she was very fond of Thranduil, she didn't love him. She simply hadn't known him long enough.

"We are what we are," he said, taking a plastic cup of water from the tray beside her bed and handing it to her. Its contents were lukewarm, but she didn't mind. "Admittedly I have gone about this courtship rather backward, but I did not know if you would _wish_ to be courted – all I knew was that you wanted a child."

Lorna drained the rest of her glass, trying to soothe her parched throat. "You," she said, "are weird, but I can't exactly say I object. I'd best keep you away from Gran, though. I wouldn't put it past her to try to brain you with her ladle. She wasn't best pleased that you knocked me up out'v wedlock."

Thranduil smirked. Really, she'd never known anyone who could smirk like him. "I would imagine she is," he said. "Before you, your grandmother was the only Edain who had spoken to me – so to speak – in for seven hundred years. When she was a girl, she caught me lurking without a permit outside her cottage – and evidently took exception to it, for she opened the door, hurled a pot at me, and told me to 'fuck off right back to the forest and get off the lawn'."

Lorna laughed so hard her incision ached. That sounded like Gran, all right. "Did you?"

"Of course not," he said, a touch imperiously. "I stood and stared until dawn. She was not _quite_ brave enough to come outside and confront me, but I could tell she wanted to."

Lorna laughed all the harder. "She told me you'd either kill me or knock me up," she said, curling onto her side. "Have you knocked anyone else up I should know about?"

He snorted. "No. In centuries past, women in that area who got with child out of wedlock would often blame me. Who was going to gainsay anyone, if I did not? You are the only Edain I have ever, as you say, 'knocked up'."

She reached out with her free hand to trace his knuckles. "D'you have any other children, Thranduil?"

"One," he said, and she wasn't at all surprised at the sorrow in his voice. "Legolas left for Valinor a thousand years ago. I know he waits for me, but – I cannot go. For some reason unknown to me, the very though fills me with horror."

"It might not always," she said, twining her fingers through his. "In another hundred years, this world might not be worth living in, and not just for someone like you. Maybe you and the sprogs'll go to Valinor. You – you know I've only got like sixty years left, right? Seventy if I'm lucky, but…not long, by your standards."

"I know," he said, raising her hand and kissing the back of it. "And once, we would have been sundered until the end of the world, but I have lingered so long in this one that I think, when I die, I will follow you."

Lorna didn't want to think about Thranduil ever dying. The mere idea was wrong. "Well, in this life we need a plan," she said. "I don't trust those idiots not to say something to someone, and I'll not have your forest overrun with tourists."

"Later," he said, kissing her forehead. "For now, you need rest. Sleep, Dilthen Ettelëa."

"What does that mean?" she asked, yawning.

"I will tell you later."

* * *

Jennifer didn't think she'd ever been so close to peeing her pants in her entire life. Her legs were still shaking when she clambered into the Prius, her heart galloping like sixty, as her grandpa would say.

She and Bryan had hunted paranormal things since high school, just because they could. Her parents had made the mistake of letting her watch _The X-Files_ when she was a kid – in addition to scaring the shit out of her, it had also made her firmly believe that the truth was out there, and that she had to find it.

Except now, shivering in the passenger seat, she kind of wished she hadn't.

The story of Lord Thranduil was an extremely obscure one, which was why she and Bryan had decided to investigate – it was doubtful many other people had. But she hadn't been prepared for the reality of it. At all.

Aliens and ghosts and stuff – they were, well, _alien_ , and visibly so. Lord Thranduil could pass for human – until you looked closer, and realized how very alien he was himself. It wasn't his ears, either, which they hadn't actually seen up close anyway. There was an otherworldliness to him, something fey and _dangerous_. Looking into those silver- flecked eyes, she'd had a horrible fear he would try to rip out her soul – and an even more horrible suspicion he would _succeed_.

Part of her wanted to run home and never look back. The other part needed to know Lord Thranduil's story, though she couldn't imagine how they were to find it out.

"Now what?" Bryan asked, his hand shaking as he jammed the key into the ignition.

She thought a moment. "Well, all our stuff's in the village," she said, "and we know Lord Thranduil's here, and not in his forest. You know how we always wanted to be Mulder and Scully? Let's go be Mulder and Scully. If we find anything, I am so dyeing my hair red again."

* * *

Bridie Monaghan sat up late, seated by her woodstove, sewing in the lamplight.

She'd worn her mother's wedding-dress, when she married in 1945 – thanks to the war, there had been neither money nor fabric to make one of her own. It had been out of fashion by then, having been made in 1920, but it was a beautiful garment, made of a smooth fall of ivory silk stolen by a relative working in England and mailed home in a box of oddments. Lorna was as tiny as her great-grandmother had been; it wouldn't take much alteration to make it fit, and it was simple enough that she wouldn't be lost in it, as she would in a modern dress. It still smelled strongly of mothballs, but there was time enough to air it out.

That Lord Thranduil…he was a menace and no mistake, sending that girl up the yard with her husband not yet dead a year. He wasn't Bridie's first choice for a grandson-in-law, but according to Mairead, in his mind, he already was. At least he wasn't one of these useless young twats that would knock a girl up and leave – but then, that might not be as good as it sounded.

All the stories handed down through the years could agree on one thing: Lord Thranduil was possessive of what he considered his. And Lorna, tough-minded creature that she was, would not take kindly to being possessed. There were millions who would swoon at the mere thought, but Lorna was a sturdy, independent little pragmatist. She'd be horrified.

Those two, Bridie predicted, were going to have some _fantastic_ rows.

* * *

Lorna slept, and Thranduil brushed her hair, twining the long black strands around his fingers as he did. So few Edain wore their hair long anymore, but hers was so long and thick that when she left it free, she almost seemed more hair than woman. Even in the anemic glow of the muted overhead light, the silver threads shone. She would have her grandmother's hair, when she grew old.

Except he had no intention of _letting_ her grow old. There were legends of ways for an Edain to gain the life of the Eldar, and while he was sure they were merely legends, he would find a way. Lorna was his, and he was not going to lose her.

Ever.

Even now, after the trauma of childbirth, she smelled like fir and lavender, with an undercurrent of something else, something elusive and nameless. He wanted to gather her close and never let her go, to keep her near him always – though that was, he knew, partly because she had just given birth. It would fade to more bearable levels.

He let his fingers hover over her face, which was still a touch too ashy. Even without contact, he could feel the Edain heat of her, burning so bright and so achingly brief. There had to be a way to keep him with her, and he would find it.

Their children would never have to live without a mother, and he need never live without his wife. She was his Lorna, and she would _stay_ his Lorna.

Forever.

He would give her safety, and home, and love, but she could never leave him. For the first time, it occurred to him that he'd better hope she wouldn't mind.

But for now he watched over her, and brushed her hair, letting it fall heavy and soft through his fingers. They would speak of it later, when she was home.

* * *

By the time Bryan and Jennifer reached the village, it was nearly eleven at night. The moon was full, though, and they had flashlights with plenty of good batteries.

They also had a very big ball of twine, though that was pure coincidence – Bryan preferred it to packing tape. They could tie it to a tree at the edge of the forest, and unwind it as they went, so they wouldn't get lost.

Jennifer, in spite of everything, was excited. With Lord Thranduil safely fifty miles away, they could explore at their leisure, and Bryan's camera was still in one piece. Even if they didn't dare post their pictures anywhere – and after a threat like that, _she_ sure as hell wouldn't – at least they'd have them for themselves.

Odds were good they wouldn't see anything supernatural, but some shots of the forest itself would be enough for her. They would have significance to her and Bryan, if nothing else.

She bundled up in the warmest clothes she'd brought, putting extra batteries in her pocket, and dumped all their assorted snack food into her purse. This, she thought, was going to be _amazing_.

Bryan gave her a somewhat shaky grin as he buttoned his black ski jacket. She'd tried to tell him Ireland wasn't _that_ cold, but now she was glad he hadn't listened, because they were probably going to be out all night. "Ready to go be Scully?" he asked, picking up his flashlight.

"You bet your ass, Mulder."

They headed out into the night, into a sleeping village washed in silver. She was reminded strongly of her childhood, when she'd run about pretending to be Scully – but she was an adult, and this was very real. She had no doubt at all that Lord Thranduil's threat was completely serious – the last thing she wanted was to encourage people to try to visit him, because she didn't want to be responsible for getting someone killed.

And, with a family to protect (and she _really_ wanted to know the story behind _that_ ) – well, she wouldn't put it past him to kill anyone or anything he found a threat to them. No, Jennifer couldn't have _that_ on her conscience.

But really, that was fitting. Even when Mulder and Scully found the truth, they never did get proof.

She and Bryan crossed the fields – carefully, for there were actually patches of ice here and there. She hadn't seen so many stars since she was a little girl in Montana, though the fog of her breath kept obscuring them. Somehow, the air here felt more alive, and she wondered if there was actually magic in the forest.

It looked so forbidding that she almost didn't want to go in, but Scully never chickened out. She switched on her flashlight, wishing she'd brought gloves, while Bryan tied an end of the twine to a sturdy branch.

"We'll only go as far as it lets us," he said. "God, it's dark in there."

And it was, too, even though the trees had shed most of their leaves. Somehow, the moonlight that pierced the bare branches seemed…dimmer…than it was outside.

Because that wasn't creepy or anything.

Drawing a deep breath, she plunged into the trees, flashlight scanning. Bryan had the camera, so she took the ball of twine, leaving him with both hands free.

Weirdly, it felt warmer in here than it did outside, and it smelled different, too; there was earth and moss and decaying leaves, but there was something else, something spicy that she couldn't name. She'd certainly never smelled it before.

A little creek gurgled to their right, glittering in the moonlight. In it were a few rocks that looked a hell of a lot like moonstones, and on impulse she knelt to pick one up. The icy water numbed her fingers almost immediately. "Bryan, look at this," she said, holding it up. Out of the water, it almost seemed to glow. "I'm going to put this on a necklace. A little souvenir."

He snapped picture of her holding it. "I know we can't put this on the Internet," he said, "but I want to tell the group." They'd made a few friends in San Francisco who were also interested in paranormal things, and they'd eat this up.

"Only if we can make sure they won't come here themselves," she said firmly. "I am _not_ going to get anyone killed, even indirectly."

"You think he'd really do it?"

"I know he would," Jennifer said grimly. "He's got half-Elf kids to protect now. I don't know that there's anything he _wouldn't_ do. Lorna might try to stop him, or she might egg him on, too."

"I _really_ want to know how that happened," Bryan said, snapping another picture. "I mean, they're kind of…mismatched."

Each on their own, yes, they were, but when they were together…Jennifer couldn't have put words around it, but when they were together, it made a little more sense. Yeah, on the surface they were nothing at all alike, but there was _something_ , something intangible and indefinable.

As terrifying as Lord Thranduil was, when he was with Lorna, he was – well, almost sweet, in a slightly creepy way. However that happened, he obviously adored her, and she probably adored him, too, when she wasn't going through labor. Women almost always wanted to murder their husbands or boyfriends when _that_ was going on. She'd even seen a few lesbian couples where the mom wanted to kill their wife or girlfriend for not being the one to carry.

Still, she too wanted to know how it had happened, but she couldn't think of any way of finding out.

She didn't get much chance to think on it, though: despite the brand-new batteries, the flashlight flickered and died.

* * *

If Thranduil seems a hell of a lot more possessive than in the other _Ettelëa_ stories…well, he's been alone for a very, very long time. He's had a while to get a bit weird. And yes, that's going to cause some problems once Lorna figures it out, because she's…Lorna. He'll learn, once he's been around other people enough.

As to Bryan and Jennifer, they're not bad people – they're just foolish, and too curious for their own good.

Title means "Troubles" in Irish. As always, your reviews feed me, and let me know if I'm doing it right.


	6. Stoirmsneachta

In which the snowstorm of the millennium hits, Thranduil is sweet (and creepy), suspicion arises about the twins, and Lorna steals an ambulance (and knocks out a cop).

* * *

Jennifer wished she'd never set foot in Ireland.

All the batteries had proved to be duds, as did their cell phones. Rather than risk getting lost on their way back, twine or no twine, she and Bryan sat and shivered until dawn. She hadn't thought to bring any toilet paper, so going pee was extra fun, too.

"We're staying in America next time," she grumbled, curling into a ball while she shivered. "We can go investigate the Stick Indians or something."

"At least we have pictures," Bryan said, wrapping his arms around her.

"We _hope_ we have pictures. Given the shit with our batteries and phones, maybe your camera got screwed up, too."

"Don't say that," he groaned. "It's bad enough Lord Thranduil crushed yours. Didn't you pay four hundred dollars for that thing?"

"Almost five hundred," she said morosely. "I can't believe he did that with _one hand_. He must be scary strong." She didn't want to think about what he'd do to them, if he caught them in his forest, either. "It's light enough. Let's get going."

* * *

After holding the twins as long as they were allowed, Lorna went back to her room and slept like the dead. When she woke the next morning, she was jittery and restless – and very, very hyper.

"Let's go outside," she said. "There's a bit'v garden here somewhere. It'll be cold as hell and its nothing like home, but at least it's fresh air. Fresh-ish air, anyway." Dublin wasn't known for air pollution – it got too much wind and rain for much to linger – but she could tell the difference between it and the village, and if she could, Thranduil probably _really_ could.

Thranduil gave her one of his customary smirks. "You will need many blankets," he said. "Look out the window."

She had to raise the bed to be able to, and she stared. "Bloody frigging hell," she breathed.

Her window had a decent enough view – it looked down on a row of shops on the other side of the street, all done up picturesque for upcoming Christmas, though it was near a month away. Everything – shops, cars, street – was covered in snow.

It _never_ snowed in Dublin. Before she and Liam started traveling, she'd only seen snow once in her life, and that had been big, fat flakes that left only the barest trace of a skiff, that had melted inside of an hour. It looked like there was a good two inches down there now, and the sky was covered in heavy, leaden clouds that threatened more. "I bet the entire bloody city's at a standstill. How the hell do we have _snow_?"

"It is, and I do not know. It has been centuries since I have seen such weather in Eire. Something, somewhere, is changing, and I still do not know what," he said, sounding a bit irked.

"It snowed once, while Liam and I were in England," Lorna said, a bit wistfully. "We had a snowball fight. I'd always wanted to, but this just doesn't _happen_ in Ireland."

"If your healers will allow it," Thranduil said, "I will take you to this garden, and you may throw snowballs at things – _carefully._ They will forgive neither you nor I if you aggravate your wound."

She looked at him. "Would you really?"

He arched an eyebrow. "Of course I would. After what you have endured, you deserve something fun."

Lorna grinned. "Let's do this."

* * *

Doctor Colin O'Donnell really didn't want to let the Donovan woman out into such cold, but her boyfriend was rather…insistent. He'd been rather insistent about several things, and he was so imposing that he always got what he wanted.

Where on _Earth_ had she found him? He was terrifying, stupidly attractive, and he obviously adored her beyond words. Husbands usually stayed in hospital with their wives after birth, but Colin had never seen one this solicitous. It was probably too much to hope he had a gay brother.

He got what he wanted this time, too – they bundled Donovan up in blankets, with a hat and gloves borrowed from Doctor Andrews, who was nearly as small as her. Donovan's boyfriend – and only now did Colin realize he still didn't know the man's name – wheeled her to the elevators.

"I swear she custom-built him," Nurse Narayanan sighed. "Have you seen him close up? That man's face is as smooth as a baby's. I wonder if he's a Terminator."

"A _Terminator_?" Colin snorted.

"He almost doesn't seem human," she said, a little defensively. "He was watching when I took her vitals last – he's curious, that one – and those eyes'v his aren't contacts, any more than hers are. I don't think his hair's bleached, either, for all his eyebrows are so dark."

Colin laughed. "Nurse, how long have you been on-shift?"

"Fourteen hours," she said, a little ruefully. "I know he's not a bleedin' Terminator, but still. He's…different, if you pay attention."

"Go home, Nurse," Colin ordered, shaking his head. Still, he _would_ pay attention, if only to prove her wrong.

* * *

Thranduil had never had a great deal of use for most Edain, but one thing he had always appreciated was their ability to feel such _wonder_ at the simplest of things.

It was bitterly cold outside – far too cold for Dublin – but Lorna didn't seem to care at all. She was nearly childlike in her wonder, leaning over the edge of her chair to scoop up some snow. Her hands were too small to make a very big snowball, but make one she did, and lobbed it at a skeletal tree.

It exploded upon impact, and she laughed. "I've never seen the city so _quiet_ ," she said, her breath rising in a cloud around her.

"Nothing is moving," he said. "And I do mean nothing. I was watching your television while you slept, and from what I could gather, the entire city is shut down."

"It would be," she said, scooping up another handful of snow. "If it's ever snowed like this in Dublin, nobody recorded it. We're not like Sweden or Norway – we've no idea at all how to deal with it. I doubt the city's even got a single snowplow." She paused. "If this lingers, we won't be getting home any time soon. Even Mairead wouldn't chance driving in this."  
"I doubt it will linger a week," he said. "You will not be going home until then anyway."

Lorna sighed. "Don't remind me. I hate hospitals."

"They do seem designed to make you want to leave as soon as possible," he said dryly.

"I just want to go _home_. Even if I can barely move with two cribs in my room."

"You need your own space," Thranduil said. "I know you are not prepared to live with me, so far from the village, but surely there is somewhere you can live within the village itself. You ought to be closer to the healers' ward anyway, while the twins are so young."

He wished she _would_ live with him, not matter how impractical it would be. The deepest, darkest part of his fëa wanted to keep her and the twins entirely to himself, away from the dangers of the outside world – away from other people entirely. Fortunately for everyone, it was a part easily subsumed, but it was nevertheless there, try though he might to stamp it out.

If Lorna truly knew _all_ that lurked in his mind, she would likely flee and never look back, so he had to make sure that she never found out. It wasn't as though he would ever act on his thoughts, so she need not know about them. Doubtless there were many things she kept from him as well, and he wasn't about to pry.

Everyone had their secrets. And some of Lorna's, he was certain, might be near as dark as his. Perhaps she would share them with him one day, but perhaps not. And if it was 'not', he had no right to press her about them.

However much he wanted to. However much he wanted to know everything there was to know about her.

* * *

Jennifer and Bryan were halfway to the edge of the forest when she smelled it: the distinctive, icy-tin scent of snow.

Snow. In Ireland.

What.

Thank God they were almost out. She was exhausted, and Bryan no less so, but she didn't want to even take a nap at the B&B – they'd get a motel somewhere else, and crank the heat up as high as it would go.

* * *

Colin had all but forgot Nurse Narayanan's words – until he ran bloodwork on the Donovan twins. When he got the results, he was certain there had to be some mistake.

They'd run bloodwork the day the twins were born, and it hadn't turned up anything abnormal. It had been very basic, however; this was more comprehensive, checking for a host of potential genetic defects. What it had found – Colin couldn't call it _defect_ , but it sure as hell wasn't _normal_. In his five years of practice, he'd never seen anything like it.

He'd run the tests again, just to be sure. It was possible the samples had been contaminated somehow, though he couldn't imagine what sort of contaminant could have caused _this_.

* * *

Lorna could have stayed outside for hours, but Thranduil made her go in when she quit being able to feel her feet. It just figured – a once-in-a-lifetime snowfall, and she was all but bedridden. She hoped Mairead would take pictures of the village, if it actually snowed there, because it would all be melted by the time they got home.

"I need a shower," she said. "As hot as I can stand it."

"You have to be careful of your incision," he warned.

"I know, but my hair feels awful. If I don't tell the nurses, they can't tell me not to. It's always better to get forgiveness than permission."

Thranduil snorted as he wheeled her into her room. "A strange philosophy."

"It's done me well all my life," she said, grinning up at him. "Keep an eye out for me, will you?"

He arched an eyebrow. "I can come in with you, if you like."

"And see my hairy legs and armpits? I don't' think so. Next time I drop trou in front'v you, I'd rather not have a row'v staples across my gut." Which had been seriously creeping her out, because really? _Staples?_ Surely they weren't meant to go in a human body.

"Very well. But if you fall, I am coming in to get you," he said.

"I won't fall," she said, exasperated. "I don't know why I'm even in a bloody wheelchair. By now that's got to be overkill."

"I think they do not realize you are rather more durable than you look," Thranduil said dryly. "Go bathe, Dilthen Ettelëa, and I will comb your hair."

"You still haven't told me what that means," she said, hoisting herself to her feet. _That_ hurt, but whatever. Her hair really did feel disgusting.

The 'shower' was merely an overhead spigot, and a section of floor with a drain in it. Lorna shed her layers, piling them on the counter, and pulled out the knob, tweaking it until the temperature was right. When she stepped under the spray, the water felt glorious – hot, but not _too_ hot, soaking through her hair. The hospital provided toiletries, but the little bottle of conditioner would only do her one wash. It was still far better than nothing. She'd certainly sleep better once she was clean, even if the nurses were sure to bitch at her.

She couldn't help a niggling sense of foreboding, even as she scrubbed her hair. Something, somewhere, wasn't right. Throughout her life, her intuition had rarely let her down, and she had an ominous feeling that shit was about to hit the fan.

 _It'll be fine_ , she told herself. If something tried to _not_ be fine, she'd hit it until it behaved itself, incision or no incision.

The shower helped, but only to a point. When she'd finished, she dried off and bundled into her layers again, she headed back out to Thranduil – who was speaking to her obstetrician.

"I fail to see how giving you _my_ blood will accomplish anything," he said, "as I am neither of the twins."

Lorna froze. _Christ_ but she hated being right all the time. "He'll not give it to you," he said. "He's a Christian Scientist, they don't believe in it. Plus, he's, you know… _English_. They're all a bit odd."

"Thank you," he said blandly.

"Don't mention it."

The doctor shook his head. He was maybe ten years older than her, if even that, pale and fair-haired, but with surprisingly dark eyes. "I just need to know if what I found with the twins is an anomaly," he said, watching Thranduil carefully. "Their DNA is…different. I'd like to run more tests."

A ball of frozen dread dropped into Lorna's stomach. "I'll not authorize a damn thing," she said. "They're babies, not lab rats."

"I'll give you time to think about it," he said, and left.

" _Shit_ ," she swore. "We've got to get them out'v here, Thranduil. Now." She had a terrible, crystalline fear that they would be told one or both twins had died, so the babies could be taken off somewhere for _more testing_. It was a ridiculous fear – rank paranoia, really – but it didn't _feel_ ridiculous.

"Lorna, it is freezing outside, and they are but two days old," he said – but he looked, in his understate way, as unsettled as she felt.

"We haven't got much choice but to risk it," she said. "If he's curious, others will be, too. They can come up with all manner'v excuses to keep us here." She stalked over to the cupboards, and pulled out her clothes. Her jeans were too big, but they could wrap the twins in her shirts. "I don't want to know what they'll do to our children, Thranduil. They'll find some way to take them from us." She knew how ridiculous she sounded, but her gut said _go_ , so they were going to go.

"And how are we to get out of the city, in all this snow?" he asked. "Nothing is moving out there for a reason."

"Leave that to me," she said. "Can you wrap the twins up in your coat? Christ, I hope they don't start crying before we're out."

"They will not," he said, and sounded completely certain.

 _Why_ hadn't she thought of this? Of course their DNA would read weird – they were half Elf. Christ only knew what Thranduil's looked like.

Well, she thought, as she jammed her left foot in her boot, nobody would be following her out of the city, that was for damn sure. Lorna wasn't afraid to drive in anything, and she knew how to hotwire a car, provided they could find one old enough to actually be hotwired.

They headed out into the hallway, outwardly calm as you please. She'd learned a long time ago that if you moved like you belonged somewhere, people tended to question it. Granted, Thranduil didn't look like he belonged _anywhere_ , but the staff were used to him by now.

Getting in to see the twins was mercifully easy, and she looked down at them, a little helplessly. They were so tiny, and so very fragile. _How_ could she risk taking them out of here, into the cold?

But there was that _look_ in the doctor's eyes – part disbelief, part excitement, and part disturbing curiosity. She didn't think _he_ meant any harm, but others would, sooner or later. Of that she was certain, unfounded though her certainty was.

Very carefully, she unhooked little Saoirse's tiny bag of saline. It and the bag connected to the feeding-tube were coming with them. She wrapped the baby in her flannel shirt and handed her to Thranduil, who tucked her into his long black coat. She yawned, and fell asleep again.

Shane barley stirred when she did the same for him, wrapping him in the thermal she'd had on under the flannel. When they got to the village, they'd go straight to the surgery. The snowstorm couldn't be widespread enough to have got there, too.

Into Thranduil's coat went Shane as well, and Lorna wiped her sweaty palms on her trousers. Her hair was a tangled, sopping mess, so she wrung it out, twisted it into a long rope, and tied it in a knot at the back of her head. She'd be marginally less noticeable that way.

Drawing a deep breath, she headed back out into the hallway, striding purposefully toward the elevator. Thankfully, the twins were as silent as Thranduil had promised, safe with their father. So far, so good, but her heart thundered, anxiety twisting in her gut.

She did, however, have what she hoped was a good idea. Surely no one would wonder about an ambulance going out into such a storm, and she was pretty sure they left the keys in them. It would have everything they'd need for the twins, too, and she'd driven much bigger vehicles.

(A city bus. While fourteen, and stoned. It was no wonder she'd crashed it into the River Liffey. Seriously, her juvenile offender list was probably as long as she was tall.)

The hospital was busy this time of day, so they had plenty of company in the elevator – but strangely, odd as they were, nobody paid them much mind. They'd be glanced at, and nothing more.

Lorna shot a suspicious glance at Thranduil. He'd said he couldn't muck about in people's minds outside his forest – no, actually, no he hadn't. He'd said he couldn't _wipe memories_.

They were going to have a little discussion about vital information, and why it should be shared, when they got home.

The parking garage was freezing, and she cast an anxious glance at his coat. His body temperature was so low that she wasn't sure how much heat they could be getting from him.

 _She_ wasn't getting heat from _anything_ ; her teeth actually chattered as she led him through the rows of cars, the cold stealing through her clothes with such ease that she might as well not have been wearing any. How the hell could it be this bloody cold in Dublin?

She didn't know, and she didn't care, because up ahead were three big, white-and-yellow ambulances. She was honestly a bit shocked no one was watching them – but then, how often did someone actually try to _steal_ one?

Obviously not often, for the door opened, though she had to hoist herself up onto the seat. Pain jagged through her abdomen, though at least it was dulled by the Vicoden still lingering in her system. That was going to make driving an utter _joy_.

Thank God, the key was already in the ignition. She clambered up onto the seat, wincing, and turned on the engine, leaning over to open the other door so Thranduil didn't have to juggle the twins.

Last time she'd been in an ambulance, it was carrying her away from the wreck that killed Liam, and she shoved the memory away as she tried to adjust the seat. This one smelled rather like that one had – plastic, and sharp disinfectant, with a weird hint of lemon.

 _Not now_ , she told herself. "Seatbelt," she ordered. "However you can manage, with those two. Are they all right?"

"They are fine," he said, shutting the door. "They are asleep." It took some finagling, but he managed the seatbelt eventually.

"I hope they stay that way." She buckled her own, and then had to hunt for the emergency brake. At least the ambulance was an automatic – with her incision, driving a manual would have been horrible.

She found the brake and the button for the heater at the same time, and hit both, backing carefully out of the slot. The bitter truth was that if she had been driving, Liam might not be dead – while she drove like a maniac, her reflexes couldn't be beaten by anyone she'd ever met. He'd turned away from the skid, not into it, and over the bridge they'd gone.

That wouldn't happen this time. She'd get them all home.

The sudden blare of an alarm made her jump, and another lump of frozen dread dropped into her stomach. When last she'd been here, she'd heard two nurses talking about some new lockdown procedure, dreamed up in case of terrorists.

This could not be coincidence.

"Hang onto them," she said, slapping the ambulance into gear and tearing off through the parking garage, tires squealing.

"Lorna," Thranduil said, and for the first time, he sounded nervous. If _this_ unsettled him, he was going to have a real problem when they got out onto the road.

"Trust me," she said, and floored it. The ambulance lurched as she took the corner at thirty, and gunned it to fifty as they headed for what passed for daylight outside. There were metal gates above the entrance, and she meant to be well clear before they went down.

Out they shot, and she pulled a hard right, using the momentum of their skid to propel them forward when she straightened the wheel. She'd heard somewhere that the trick to driving in snow was to use the brake as little as possible, which was just fine with her.

She didn't stomp the gas – she let the tires find purchase on their own, and sped up gradually, until they were doing a respectable thirty. Anyone who followed – and she was sure someone would, eventually, even if only to retrieve the ambulance – either wouldn't dare speed, or wouldn't be able to and stay on the road.

"All right," she said, forcibly swallowing her panic. "Once we're out'v the snow, you'll really see some driving. Twins still okay?"

"They are fine," he assured her again. "Please do not drive like your sister."

Lorna snorted. "What, Mairead? She drives like a granny." Tiny white flakes fluttered down onto the windscreen, and she had to hunt for the switch for the windscreen wipers. Though it was only noon, the clouds were so heavy it looked like evening.

"Remind me never to ride with your grandmother," he muttered, looking down at the twins. "There will be trouble from this, will there not?"

"Probably," she said grimly. "If that doctor manages to make anyone believe him, they might try to bring us up on child endangerment charges, for taking the twins home so early. Since they're out, though, he's got nothing but his results, and they'll get laughed off as a hoax." She cast a brief glance at him, his pale profile. "You really are bloody lucky nobody believes in magic anymore, Thranduil. Skepticism is your friend."

" _Our_ friend," he corrected. "You might be Edain, Dilthen Ettelëa, but you are of my people now, too."

" _What_ does that mean?" she asked, coasting to a stop at an empty intersection, unsure why she even bothered.

"'Little Stranger'," he said, and she could _hear_ him smirking. "You came as a stranger to my land, and you really are _very_ little."

"No, you're just the size'v a tree," she grumbled. God, but this was almost creepy – the lights were on, but she had never, ever seen the streets of Dublin so empty. "And this weather can't be natural. Are you _sure_ you're the only Elf left?"

"Even if I were not, Elves cannot influence the weather. Our magic has always been limited."

"Someday, when we have time, you'll have to show me what you can do," she said, lightly pressing the gas. "And I did _not_ mean for that to sound so dirty."

Thranduil laughed, rich and deep, and her toes curled. Dammit, now was not the time. She was pretty sure that if he put his mind to it, he could make her come with just his voice.

Something to keep in mind for later.

The snow fell heavier, but at least the button for the headlights was easy to find. She wondered just how widespread this was, and pitied the hell out of everyone who lived here. When all this melted, the streets would be flooded everywhere.

Her ruminations were interrupted by a whirling flash of red and blue lights in the rear-view mirror. _Shit_.

"The fuzz found us," she muttered. She could barely see the panda car through the snow, but it was there, and she sure as hell couldn't pretend to be an EMT if they pulled over. But… "Stay quiet, Thranduil. Let me deal with this."

He eyed her warily, but did as bidden when she eased toward the curb. Strangely, she was temporarily almost serene – she knew what she had to do, and what she was _going_ to do – though she rather pitied the poor cop, who probably didn't deserve what was about to happen to him.

She saw him approach in the mirror, a bulky silhouette in the glow of his headlights. As soon as he was beside the door, she unlatched it, kicked it open – and slammed him right in the head.

It connected with a solid _thud_ , and he dropped like a shot duck – which was just as well, because the action sent pain flaring through her abdomen in a searing, red-hot wave, even as icy air blasted into the cab.

" _Cocksucker_ ," she growled, dragging the door shut, and fought the urge to floor it. Again she had to ease up her speed, but she went at forty now, headed straight for the motorway.

"Was that really necessary?" Thranduil asked, though he sounded more amused than anything else.

"Did you want to try to explain…us?" she asked irritably. " _I_ didn't. I don't know what the hell he's even doing ought in this weather."

"Who _was_ he?"

She had no idea how to explain a cop to someone whose only knowledge of law enforcement came from watching _The X-Files_. "Someone who could have caused us a load'v problems," Fuck traffic signals – I'm not stopping again until we're home. Once he wakes up, he'll call for reinforcements."

They barreled on into the storm, and she hoped like hell no one would follow.

* * *

Thranduil is getting all kinds of education in the outside world, isn't he?

Colin _means_ well, but Lorna's right: somewhere up the food chain, he'll find people that won't, and she's genre savvy enough to know where _that_ would head.

Title means "snowstorm" in Irish. As always, your reviews fill me with light and hope.


	7. Abhaile

In which Lorna and Thranduil make it home (and Mairead chews them both out), Doc Barry and Big Jamie are suspicious (and rightly so), Thranduil reaches a decision (and surprises everyone), and Colin continues to sew trouble (with the best of intentions.)

* * *

Bridie had a terrible sense of foreboding – and it had nothing to do with the pair of eejits that came staggering out of Lord Thranduil's wood, staring dazedly at the falling snow.

 _Snow_. In her ninety-three years of life, she'd only seen snow a handful of times, and even then it was usually mixed with sleet. This, though – this was tiny flakes, and it was actually dusting the fields. She stood at her kitchen window and watched, wrapped in the warmth of the cottage.

First the rainstorm, now this. Bridie wasn't what that American pair would call psychic, but she _was_ very old, and her intuition had honed itself to razor-sharpness. Something was afoot – something unnatural.

Well, not _unnatural_. Her great-grandchildren had made her watch that American program, _The X-Files_ , and while she thought much of it was hogwash, some of it had struck unnervingly close to home. The woman, Scully, had said something that still stuck with Bridie: 'Nothing happens in contradiction to nature – only to what we know of it.' And whatever was causing this, she didn't know of.

She'd ask Lord Thranduil, whenever he returned. If anyone would have any idea, it was him.

The Americans were still staggering, so she opened her door, leaned out, and hollered, "Get in here, the pair'v you, before you freeze solid!"

They hurried toward the cottage, slipping and sliding over the brown, frozen grass. Both were pale as the falling snow, and the poor girl's lips were blue. They looked utterly miserable, and Bridie shook her head. _Young people_.

"Ignore the smell," she said, shutting the door behind them. God but it was cold out there. "I've got something I can't exactly air out outside." She'd got used to the stink of the camphor, but _they_ wouldn't be.

"Thank you so much," the girl said, her teeth chattering.

"So you've gone into Lord Thranduil's woods," Bridie said, filling the kettle and putting it on the stove. "It's luck you are he's away. He doesn't take kindly to trespassers, unless they're my granddaughter. Then he takes to them _too_ kindly," she muttered.

"That's why we went in," the boy admitted. "We knew he was in Dublin."

Bridie snorted. "D'you think he won't know you were there anyway? If you've any sense at all, you'll get out'v Ireland. He'll do what he thinks it'll take to protect his home. It's not stood untouched for so long without reason."

The girl, still shivering, sat in one of the kitchen chairs. Her brown hair hung in damp straggles over her forehead, but at least her lips were no longer blue. "You've all known he was here?"

"Aye. Everyone knows'v Lord Thranduil, but _we're_ smart enough to leave him alone," Bridie said, digging a loaf of bread out of the cupboard. It was a day old, but it would do. "Lorna, she wasn't born here. It's fortunate he took a fancy to her, or she might've disappeared. Most who go into that wood don't come out, and those that do are cracked in the head when he's done with them."

"Why _her_ , out of everyone?" the boy asked. The melting snow on his hair had turned it into a stringy mess, too.

"I asked her that," Bridie said, setting out the bread and a long knife. "Her answer made a lot'v sense. Most that go into that forest are looking to take something," she added pointedly, and they both winced. "She wanted proof that he _didn't_ exist, and when she found him, she sang him a song. She'd offered to, y'see, when first she stood at the edge of his forest, and she said he told her it was the only time in his entire life anyone had offered him something for nothing.

"You two wanted to _take_. You want to expose him, to expose his home. And if you do, he'll hunt you to the ends'v the Earth."

"We weren't going to," the girl said, peeling off her coat. "I mean, yeah, that was the original idea, but now we just wanted something for ourselves. Souvenirs. He – he pointed out some things, when we saw him at the hospital. We don't want to make his life suck – and not just because he said he'd kill us both if we tried."

"Be certain you don't," Bridie said firmly, bringing out butter and her own home-made strawberry jam. "Did you take anything but pictures?"

"I grabbed a stone out of the creek," the girl admitted.

"You toss it back, as soon as you can," Bridie ordered. "Don't have to be in the creek – just back in the forest. He'll not stand for you taking even that."

"You know," the boy said, "we've been hunting for paranormal things since we were in high school. Now I wish we hadn't found one."

"You should be always be careful what you wish for," Bridie said, not unkindly. "Careful what you wish, careful what you say. Careful what you wish – you may regret it. Careful what you wish – you just might get it."

The girl blinked. "Metallica?" she asked, incredulously.

"Meeting Lorna has been an education," Bridie said blandly. "I might not like the sound'v them, but they've a way with words. I'll fix you some tea and sandwiches, and once this storm lets up, you go put that stone back and get out'v here."

* * *

Lorna could hardly _believe_ this.

The shoulders of the M-7 were littered with cars, and lined with people who had their mobiles glued to their ears. Who was going to rescue them, she didn't know; she couldn't have fit them all in the ambulance, even if it had been safe to stop.

She didn't dare stop, for she was certain that if she did, she'd never get started again. The key to driving in snow was not to panic, but if she got stuck, she'd panic like buggery. If she kept going at forty, and eased on the brake without pressing it down entirely, she could keep forward momentum and not skid on the curves.

It had worked for the last twenty miles, and she hoped it kept working the next thirty, because the storm was just as bad here as it was in Dublin. And she was beginning to fear it would stay that way all the way to the village.

"This is mad," she said, wiping her damp palms on her trousers. She'd turned the heat up, both to de-fog the windscreen and keep the twins warm, but it wasn't the only reason she was sweating. "Thranduil, what do we do if that doctor manages to convince anyone he's not touched in the head, and someone comes after us?"

"We lure them into my forest," he said serenely, his rich voice soothing as a warm blanket, "and I make them forget. Or drive them truly mad, so that none will believe them ever again."

Lorna wanted to say that was wrong, but she couldn't. She'd done worse in defense of those she'd considered her family.

"Our kids're going to have a hell'v a time'v it, when they grow up," she sighed, twisting the button to speed up the windscreen wipers. The snow was so fast and so heavy that it was trying to plaster the outside of the windscreen, only half-melting when it made contact with the warm glass. The effect was a bit like the Gaussian blur filter on Mairead's Photoshop – pretty, but no fun at all to drive in. "If they've got your ears, traveling'll not be easy. Thank Christ we hadn't named them yet. We'll have to give them some other surname than Donovan, just to be safe. Have you got a last name?"

"Oropherion," he said. "It means 'child of Oropher'. Ours would be Thranduilion, which, given that legends of me have somehow left the village, will not help."

She snorted. "No, no it won't. Mam's maiden name was Monaghan – they can have that. Saoirse and Shane Monaghan. We can register their middle names later, though that'll seem a bit odd, adding to it so long after the fact."

"At least we will not be Eöl," Thranduil said, shifting the twins in his arms. Lorna dared risk a brief glance at him, and found his hair had formed a pale curtain around them, shining in the glow of the interior lights. "He did not give his son a name until the boy was twelve."

" _Twelve?_ " she said. "Why?"

"Eöl was…strange. In the end, he turned out to be quite evil, and his son was no better. He married his wife under…questionable circumstances, and not for the reason Eldar customarily marry."

"Questionable?" Lorna asked, not liking the sound of that at all.

"He ensnared her through sorcery while she was lost in his forest, and would not allow her to leave. He could not have wed her by force, but consent does not equal desire," Thranduil said.

She shivered. That was a woman's worst nightmare. Hell, that was _anyone's_ worst nightmare. "How can you know it wasn't by force?"

"Because Eldar, if violated in that manner, die. Our fëa, our souls, are not tethered to our physical form as strongly as yours. There are several forms of torture that can sever them."

"That," she said, "is seriously fucked-up." Elves were supposed to be immortal, and yet they could die from torture a human would survive? No wonder Thranduil was the only one left.

* * *

Thranduil was worried.

Something was stirring, something unseen and barely perceptible, and it was not something small.

Even before the Obliteration, there had been precious few beings who could influence the weather, and none on this scale. While there _were_ still traces of magic in this world, there wasn't nearly enough to create _this_. This was something new – and he did not at all like the fact that it coincided with the first trip he'd taken from his land in seven hundred years. With the birth of his children.

He looked down at them, still safe and sleeping. Peredhel though they were, physically they took mostly after their mother; they would be more durable than the average Edain, but not as much so as an Elf. If danger was coming, even as adults they would be at a disadvantage compared to him – unless they chose immortality.

And Lorna…there would be no keeping her in a safe place, not if he did not stay as well. She was twenty pounds of stubborn in a ten-pound sack, as the Edain would say. He had a feeling you could cut both her legs off and she'd still drag herself after you so she could rip your throat out.

Her expression was certainly determined now, though her knuckles were white as she gripped the wheel. Thranduil was quite certain she would hit him if he told her she was adorable, so he wisely kept silent.

His eyes drifted down her form, and he went very still. Pointing it out would only make her panic, so he said nothing, but fear lurched heavy in his heart.

There were rusty-red splotches on the front of her hospital smock. They were small, but they were not light. She must have done something to her incision when she hit the man with the door, and now it was bleeding. Not much, it would seem, but _any_ was too much. She shouldn't be driving – she shouldn't be _moving_ – but, though he had a good idea of how to operate a car, he didn't trust his ability to do so. Not in snow. Lorna had some manner of feel for the pedals that he was sure he would not possess.

So he kept silent, but his tension woke little Saoirse, who started crying. Such a high, tiny cry – nothing like Legolas as a baby.

"Someone's not enjoying this," Lorna said, fiddling with some button on the console. "It's all right, little one. We'll have you safe and comfy soon."

Quiet sound emerged from somewhere – a chatter of voices, all talking at cross-purposes. Lorna pressed a few more buttons, seemingly at random, cursing under her breath.

"It's the storm'v the century, mates, and what a storm it is," a man said. He sounded gleeful as a child. "It's moving fast up the whole east coast, burying everything as it goes, so stay off the main roads and stay safe. Don't worry – the English'll get it soon enough."

Lorna snorted, and Thranduil wondered why there was such animosity between the two nations.

"The M-7's closed near the Kildare exit, so if you're on either side, I'm afraid you're stuck. If anyone's got a snowplow in their garden shed, now's the time to dig it out."

"They'll bloody let us through," she muttered. "I don't care who I've got to run over."

If he didn't know any better, he would say part of her was _enjoying_ this, in spite of their rather dire circumstances. There was a certain light in her green eyes, something that bordered on unholy, and he wondered if she _hoped_ there would be something for her to run over. He wouldn't be surprised.

The sky darkened by the moment, and the snowflakes danced in the light of the ambulance's front lanterns. Indeed it was so heavy that Thranduil wondered how she could see through it – and decided that she probably couldn't.

Naturally, this did nothing at all for his nerves.

* * *

Big Jamie stood at the pub's front window, watching the snow fall.

His children – and all the others in the village – were out playing in it, lobbing snowballs without a care in the world, but he was worried.

Nobody could call him an imaginative man, but he paid a great deal more attention than most would think. His da had always told him that Lord Thranduil couldn't control the weather, but Jamie wondered if he could _influence_ it, consciously or not.

Not many had paused to wonder just what powers the Elf might have. He and the village had left one another alone for centuries – he might walk about at night, but that was it. He had been alone for a very, very long time, and probably emotionally…static. Now, however, he was _not_ alone – it was obvious to anyone with eyes that he adored Lorna, and now they had two tiny babies, whose birth would have been more traumatic to him that most, since he didn't understand modern medicine. Just what could that emotional turbulence do?

Although speaking of emotional disturbance, Lord Thranduil's obvious adoration was a bit…worrisome. Lorna was a good woman, and he knew her well enough by now, but it had been like this from the first. He'd been so totally isolated for so long that it wasn't exactly _surprising_ , but the way he looked at her when she wasn't looking at him sometimes bordered on obsessive.

But then, he wasn't human. Reading his emotional cues as if he were likely wasn't accurate. But Jamie had spent twenty years reading people – in his line of work, he _had_ to – and some of what he saw unsettled him.

Oh well. Lorna seemed fond enough of Lord Thranduil in return, and now that they had kids together, that would surely deepen.

Trouble was, she was mortal. Someday she would die, and while Jamie himself would likely be long in the ground by then, his own children would have to deal with the emotional fallout from Lord Thranduil's grief. And _that_ would be a problem.

But it wasn't one yet. The power flickering and dying, however, was.

Bloody hell.

* * *

Mairead and her eldest, Shannon, were in the surgery when the power cut. Shannon had slipped throwing snowballs and broken her left arm, which had just been set when the lights went out.

Fortunately, the surgery was one of only two places in the village with an emergency generator, so they kicked on again almost immediately, but still. In spite of her Irish name, Doc Barry was Indian, and she muttered something in Hindi that Mairead was sure was a curse.

"I am going to hit Lord Thranduil," she said irritably. "If this is not his fault, I am a fish."

"You think so?" Shannon asked She was woozy with painkillers, her red hair went from melting snow.

"He falls in love with your aunt and the weather goes to hell," the doctor said. "I do not think this is a coincidence."

Mairead didn't, either, and it was a relief to know she wasn't the only one. Wretched man – Elf. Who fell in love thanks to a _song_? No sensible person. Terrifying as he was, in that moment she could strangle him.

She didn't have long to think about it. There came a faint skid of tires and a very large crash, and even Shannon jumped.

"I'll go check," Mairead sighed. She had no idea who would be mad enough to be out in such weather, but if they hadn't just wrecked their car, she'd be very surprised.

What she found sent dread spiking through her. An ambulance had crashed into a power pole, shattering one headlight. Out of it struggled Lorna, without so much as a coat, the front of her hospital gown dotted with rusty patches.

"What in God's bloody name d'you think you're doing?!" Mairead shouted, heading out the door and hustling her inside. Lord Thranduil exited the passenger side, far more smoothly, for all he had something in his arms under his coat.

"Someone figured out the twins aren't human," Lorna said, shivering visibly. "What the fuck else was I supposed to do?"

"You've not gone and brought them _with_ you?" Mairead asked, panic twisting in her gut.

"No, I left them behind to get bloody dissected," Lorna said witheringly. "We stole that thing and came home. They've got their saline and food and that."

Mairead groaned, even as Nuala came running. She looked every bit as appalled as Mairead felt, her face pale in the muted light.

"Come on, Lord Thranduil," she ordered. "Let's get them set up, if we even can. We're running on the generator as it is."

"Lorna, come see Doc Barry," Mairead added, grabbing her sister's arm. "And don't look down."

Of course, that was the first thing Lorna did. "Oh, bloody hell," she groaned. "This is _just_ what I need."

"You're a bloody idiot, Lorna," Mairead said, hustling her down the dim hallway. "As if anyone'd believe the twins aren't human."

"My obstetrician did," she grumbled. "I had to get them out, before he convinced someone else. Christ, Mairead, he wanted a blood sample from Thranduil. _Thranduil_ , not me. You'll forgive me if that raised a few red flags."

Angry as she was, Mairead had to concede she had a point. Natural human skepticism would have been the only thing keeping someone from realizing he wasn't human, since it really was rather obvious, even without his ears. Not many believed in magic or Elves or anything anymore, so most would dismiss his air of _alien_ as him just being weird. But anyone who wasn't a die-hard skeptic would pick up on it sooner or later.

Damn it all, _why_ did he have to go and knock Lorna up? Clearly he had not thought this through. If he'd been human, Mairead would think he'd just wanted in her knickers – and even though he wasn't, she half thought that anyway. _Men_. They really were all the same, even when they were Elves.

"Shannon, allanah, your cast'll have to wait a bit," she said, shooing Lorna into the room. "Your aunt was an idiot, and now her incision's bleeding."

"Thanks," Lorna said blandly.

"I only speak the truth," she said grimly. "Necessary or not, you still shouldn't have been driving yet."

"What was I supposed to do?" she demanded, while Shannon slid drunkenly off the table, her arm immobilized in a splint. "Let _Thranduil_ drive?"

All right, she had another point, but _still_. Mairead helped Lorna onto the exam table, biting back a few choice curses.

When Doc Barry hiked up Lorna's hospital gown, she let them all fly, which of course made Shannon giggle. Lorna's incision was… _oozing_. She'd actually popped a few of her staples out.

"Lorna, what in God's bloody name did you do?" Mairead asked. "You can't've done that just driving."

Her expression went shifty. "I might or might not've knocked out a cop."

Shannon burst out laughing, and Mairead covered her face with her hands. She had to remind herself that Lorna's upbringing had been very, very different from her own. "Brilliant. Just brilliant. Thank God nobody can come looking for you yet."

"Yeah, we'll have to hide the ambulance, sooner or later," Lorna sighed.

"You are all ridiculous," Doc Barry said. "Lie back, Lorna. This will need stitches, and then you must move as little as possible for the next few days."

"Great," she sighed morosely. "Doc, how long will your generator last?"

"Twenty-four hours, but I am sure they will have the power back before then," the doctor said, filling a needle with morphine.

Lorna frowned. "If this keeps up, I wouldn't count on it," she said. "It's dumping outside, and the roads're a skating-rink. Mairead, how much firewood have you got? We need to keep the twins warm."

Mairead's heart sank. "Not much," she said. "It's not just the twins we've got to worry about, either. Big Jamie's got a fireplace, but we can't cram the whole village in there. And Christ, what if the pipes freeze? What'll we do?" Never in all her life had she known winter to get this cold. This was Norway weather, and utilities simply weren't rated for it.

"You will come with me."

Lord Thranduil had appeared in the doorway, completely silently. He looked at Lorna's abdomen with open worry.

"What, _all'v_ us?" Mairead asked. "The whole bloody village?"

He smirked. "Mistress Mairead, my caverns were once home to far more people than your village possesses. I cannot _feed_ you all for any length of time, but there is much you might bring with you, and ride out this storm in safety. And if anyone _does_ seek Lorna and I, they will have themselves a pretty mystery when they find the village empty."

Lorna grinned. "That's evil," she said. "I like it. Now come here and give me a kiss before I get a load'v thread in my gut."

Lord Thranduil arched an eyebrow. "Lorna, you really are terribly romantic," he said dryly, but cross the little room and kiss her he did, ignoring Shannon's gagging sounds.

"If you are quite finished," Doc Barry said pointedly. "Lorna, I am going to inject this morphine. Hold still."

* * *

Thranduil never would have thought he would make such an offer, but he had little choice. Edain could not sense the weather as he did; this was not going to go away soon enough for the village. He could hardly leave them to freeze.

And…well, the sight of Lorna's wonder at snow had stirred something. Most Edain seemed like children to him – they would certainly marvel at his home. Lorna was right; it was too beautiful to be so empty, and while he would not want them all there on a permanent basis, perhaps having houseguests for a few days would be…nice.

And Lorna would love him for it. It had been a very long time since he'd had to take anyone else's feelings into account, but he would rather she be happy. And the happier she was, the sooner she might truly love him. Thranduil was not above benign manipulation, though he would not outright lie to her.

He held her hand while the healer cleaned and stitched her incision, her small fingers still warmer than his in spite of their chill. They never did get a chance to brush her hair, which was still damp, and still tied in a knot. He rather wished at least one of the twins would have her hair, for it was so very back, threaded with pure silver.

"This," she said, looking up at him, "will be bloody amazing. Seriously, you lot can't _imagine_ what his home's like. I've not seen anything like it, even in pictures. It'll be like a giant slumber party. Hey," she added, "hey, I'm not up the yard anymore. I can try your wine. And not, you know, secondhand."

Mairead's daughter gagged, and Mairead herself looked a bit disturbed. "Lorna," she said, pained, "you are my baby sister, and I really don't need to hear things like that."

Lorna snorted. "Mairead, I'm twenty-nine bloody years old," she said. "You can't exactly call me a baby."

Thranduil shut his eyes. "Please do not remind me, Lorna. I realize that you are well into adulthood for an Edain, but a twenty-nine-year-old Eldar would be roughly equivalent in age to your sister's daughter. We do not reach full maturity until we are fifty. I try not to think about how old any of you are. Or rather, how old you are not."

It truly did disturb him, too, but such was life when dealing with mortals. He knew that he must seem beyond ancient to them – they thought in terms of decades, not millennia.

"Well, you will all have to stay here tonight," the healer said. "Mairead, if you would like you can call Big Jamie – he will call everyone else. If we are to go anywhere, we should do it in the morning. Otherwise the fields may be impossible."

"I always forget you people cannot walk on snow," Thranduil sighed.

"Wait, what?" Mairead's daughter asked. "You can walk _on_ snow? _How?_ You're like, giant-sized."

Lorna burst out laughing. "She has a point."

"All Eldar walk on snow," he said. "I cannot understand how you people can't. I suppose you will see a demonstration tomorrow."

* * *

Colin stared at the Donovan twins' blood tests, borderline morose.

All he'd wanted was a few more, and one from the father. The fact that they'd run off into the storm – and stolen an ambulance, to boot – made him wonder if there was something to Nurse Narayanan's speculations after all.

He drained the bitter dregs of his coffee, and went to pour another cup. Of course, the thought was ridiculous – and yet, they'd run away. At the first hint of suspicion, they'd taken their children and fled.

Stealing an _ambulance_ had been a stroke of genius, but where would they go, in such weather? They'd more than likely wreck before they made it out of the city, yet there had been no reports of a crashed ambulance.

Colin returned to his papers, inhaling the scent of coffee. He wanted to show this to someone, but who would believe him? Even he thought it sounded insane, and he was the one with suspicions.

He sipped his coffee. It was too bitter; it had been sitting in the pot for too long. He'd show them to Nurse Narayanan, when he saw her next. And then, whenever the blasted weather cleared, maybe he'd take a daytrip to Lasgaelen. Maybe the nurse might want to go with him.

* * *

Yes, the name of the village is deliberate, albeit Gaelicized. And yes, Colin is going to get a very nasty shock when he finally gets out there. Meanwhile, Thranduil's home will actually have people again, for a while.

What is the Obliteration, you ask? You will find out in due course.

Title means "Homecoming" in Irish. As always, reviews keep me going, and let me know where I should be going.


	8. Lá ag Gluaiseacht

In which the village heads to Thranduil's halls (and are suitably impressed), and Thranduil is quite amused.

* * *

Doc Barry had brought a cot into the little room that housed the twins, along with a space-heater to sit in between their cribs. They were wrapped in every spare blanket and towel the surgery had, tiny little bundles with their IV and food lines suspended on poles.

Lorna looked down at them, a bit helplessly. Oh, they _seemed_ fine, but how the hell would she know? All she knew about babies was what she'd read in books.

"Their fëa are strong, Lorna," Thranduil said, laying a hand on her shoulder. "They are resting, and you must, too. Otherwise I think your healer may skin us both."

She laughed. "You might be right there," she said. "I'm afraid to sleep, though. I'm afraid something will happen."

"I will stay awake, Dilthen Ettelëa," he promised, leading her to the cot. The mattress was about as thick as an old sock, but it would do. "I will wake you, should anything change." He wrapped his coat around her – it was heavier than it looked, and it smelled of him, rich and spicy and a little dizzying.

"Has anybody ever told you that you smell really good?" she asked, curling up on the cot. Though her incision remained numb from the morphine, it felt alien, and not in a good way. Now that her adrenaline was crashing, though, she was too tired to care.

"I believe it is a first," he said dryly. "Sleep, Dilthen Ettelëa. We will still be here when you wake."

* * *

Lorna woke the next morning to a bladder that felt like it was going to explode.

Her feet were numb, her legs so stiff she nearly fell when she got off the cot, and her incision hurt like a mad bastard.

Fuck everything.

Thranduil, true to his word, was awake – he sat on a stool, watching the twins. She limped over as well, clutching her abdomen.

The babies looked as peaceful as ever – Shane was asleep, while Saoirse looked up at her. The kid really _did_ have her eyes – green so vivid her da had called them demon eyes.

"Hello there," Lorna said, reaching down to stroke her daughter's fuzzy head. "See, that trip wasn't so bad, was it? Mammy's about to piss herself, but when she's back from the toilet, she'll say a proper good-morning."

Thranduil snorted, and she gave him a half-grin as she headed out into the short hallway. Even through her socks, the tile floor was freezing; Doc Barry must have turned down the heat in most of the surgery, to save fuel for the generator. It meant Lorna's arse would probably freeze to the toilet-seat, too. Dammit.

She had to pass the waiting-room to get to the toilet, and when she looked out the window, she froze.

"Bloody fucking _hell_ ," she breathed.

The snow was level with the bottom of the window – a good three feet off the ground, and unbelievably, it was _still falling_. Getting anywhere would be a nightmare, let alone out to the forest. How the hell were they to do it at all?

It was a question that would have to wait until she'd hit the toilet, so hit it she did – and the seat was as cold as she'd expected. Because that was a great way to start the morning.

She hurried back to Thranduil, shivering. "Thranduil, we've a bit'v a problem," she said. "Go look out the front window."

"I know," he said. "I have, and I have been thinking. If Big Jamie and some of the larger men break a trail, the others can follow them, more or less easily. I will carry you and the twins."

"I keep forgetting you're actually strong enough to do that," she said. He'd neither slept nor showered in four days, but you'd never know it – his silvery hair was still sleek and not remotely greasy, with nary a shadow or under-eye bag to be seen. It wasn't fair, and she also kind of wanted to lick him. She'd blame _that_ on hormones.

She wasn't ready to tell him this yet, but that strength was actually a bit of a turn-on. Lorna, for all she was so small, seemed to have a higher muscle density than most people, which made her somewhat difficult to overpower – Shane had, but he was also a foot taller and outweighed her by almost a hundred pounds. He'd taught her all her extremely dishonorable self-defense techniques, for when she ran up against people like him.

None of that, she was sure, would work against Thranduil, which was something she _ought_ to find terrifying. He could probably break her neck with one hand, but she trusted that he wouldn't, and _that_ , really, was what turned her on. She did trust him, for all she was certain he was capable of terrible things. He was so old he had to have, at some point or another.

"You look very thoughtful," he said, tilting his head to one side as he regarded her.

"Someday I'll tell you why," she said. "Meanwhile, we've got to pack whatever it is we'll need for the twins, and probably head over to the pub. Everybody'll meet there, I'm sure." She wasn't at all looking forward to going out into the cold, no matter how beautiful the snow was. Even the thought made her shiver.

Thranduil gave her a smirk. "May I kiss you, Lorna?" he asked. "It would warm you up."

She arched an eyebrow. "You gonna be able to handle having wood before we get to your wood?"

"I think I will live," he said dryly.

Lorna couldn't help but laugh. "Okay," she said. "Impress me."

He picked her up and stood her on the cot – he had to, if he wanted to avoid giving her a crick in the neck, and kissed her. It was soft at first – testing the waters, perhaps – waiting for her to part her lips when she was ready. Unlike hers, his were so very soft, and her tongue darted out to give his upper lip a playful lick.

She felt him laugh, and he deepened the kiss, wrapping his arms around her as he explored her mouth, slow and languorous. Somehow, even after three days in the hospital, he still tasted faintly of wine, a sweetness that offset the rich, spicy _Thranduil_ taste of him. She felt like she could do this for hours, without needing anything more.

Unfortunately, the door opened. "Doc Barry says – oh, for Christ's _sake_."

Lorna burst out laughing, and looked at her sister. Poor Mairead looked a bit green. "You've got terrible bloody timing," she grumbled.

Her sister's eyes narrowed. "You do know that you can't do… _that_ right now, don't you?" she asked sternly.

Lorna rolled her eyes. "I'm not _completely_ thick," she said. "But that doesn't mean we can't kiss."

Mairead shook her head, grumbling something about perverted Elves. "Save it until we've got where we're going," she said, "and pack the twins up. We're headed to the pub." She stalked away, muttering to herself, and Lorna laughed again.

"Bit'v a prude, that one. She won't be happy until we're decently married."

Thranduil touched her chin, drawing her to look at him. "Well, my goal _is_ to convince you to want to," he said, stroking his thumb along her jaw.

"Are you gonna – y'know, be pissed, if it take me a while to decide?" she asked, a little hesitantly.

He smirked, and kissed her forehead. "I am immortal, Dilthen Ettelëa," he said. "If I am good at anything, it is patience. I do not want you to rush into something you later regret. It has been less than a year since you lost your husband. To me, you are my wife, but I would not wish you to think of me as your husband until you are ready."

She probably ought to be annoyed at his presumption, but she would, sooner or later, and they both knew it. "You won't get peeved that I'll not shag you until then? Because, um, I won't."

"Lorna, if all I wanted was a bed companion, I could have chosen from the village centuries, ago," he said, smoothing his thumb over the sharp angle of her cheekbone. "Eldar do not work that way. Yes, I would still like to sleep with you, but only in the most literal sense. In this, Eldar are not as Edain – we crave contact with our spouse, but that does not mean it must be carnal. Your people are driven by nature to reproduce, for your lives are so brief, and historically you have died so very easily. Mine live forever – even Eldar who have children rarely have more than one, or the world would have been overrun with us. For the most part, we feel desire only when we want to."

"If humans could do that, the world would be a better place," she observed. The more she heard about Elves, the more she realized just how alien they were. "But we'd best get the twins packed up, or Mairead'll kill us."

"I am beginning to believe she could," he said dryly. "In another era, she would have made a good warrior-chieftan."

Lorna laughed. She could picture that all too clearly.

* * *

Even as Big Jamie packed up all he could carry from the pub's freezer, he wondered what to make of Mairead's news.

The prohibition against entering Lord Thranduil's forest had been drummed into his head for as long as he could remember – and unlike some, he'd never been tempted to disobey it. His every instinct still screamed that it was wrong, no matter that they'd been invited.

But a glance out the window told him he'd be mad to stay here. It was _still_ snowing, the flakes tiny, but so heavy he could barely see across the street. The light was odd, too – too bright for the darkness of the sky.

He'd had the fireplace roaring all night, using every stick he had, but it was still cold near the window. The plain truth was that anyone who stayed another night would freeze to death. His thermometer read fifteen below zero – ten degrees colder than when he'd woken. He could see his breath, even in his back room.

"Da, are we _really_ going to Lord Thranduil's forest?" Ronan, his eldest, asked. He was a bright-eyed boy of ten, with his mother's dark hair and his father's freckles. He'd been out playing in the snow, leaving his coat dusted white and his face red from the cold.

"We are," Jamie said, and tried not to sound as grim as he felt. "You're to be on your best behavior, you hear me? And keep your eye on Aislinn – I don't want her wandering off."

Ronan groaned. Aislinn was Jamie's youngest; she'd just turned four, and had two modes: zoom and sleep. Sometimes Jamie got tired just watching her.

At least it was just her. Lorna and Lord Thranduil would have their hands full, once those twins learned to walk. He'd have to tell them about child leashes.

"I mean it," he said. "We're guests in Lord Thranduil's home. You'll go where he says you can go, and nowhere else."

"Okay," Ronan sighed, so heavily that Jamie had to laugh.

The bell over the door jangled as it opened, and admitted the Elf himself, carrying Lorna, who was wrapped up in his long black coat. He was followed by Mairead and Shannon, whose left arm was encased in a lime-green cast, and Doc Barry, who scowled.

"There is no snow in Ireland, John says," she grumbled, dusting off her black hair.

"He's usually right," Jamie said. "Lorna, did you _really_ steal a bloody ambulance?"

"I had reasons," she said darkly. "Thranduil, you can put us down now."

"No," he said thoughtfully, "I do not think so."

Jamie couldn't believe they'd dragged those twins out of the hospital and into the cold. They must have had damn _good_ reasons, for they were neither of them daft. _Weird_ , especially Lord Thranduil, but not daft.

Siobhan, in a bright red coat and matching stocking cap, hurried in, and immediately almost pounced on Lorna. Jamie had no idea why, but she genuinely didn't seem unsettled by Lord Thranduil at all – which at the moment seemed to bemuse him.

"Christ but they're tiny. How will you keep them warm all that way?"

"I have ways, Mistress Siobhan. What is in that bag?" he asked, nodding at the grey canvas sack in her black-gloved hand.

"All the food I had in the house. I put the perishables outside last night, so they'll still be good, even if the milk's frozen solid."

Bit by bit, more people trickled in – Dain and his parents, Mick and Alec, Nuala (who had cut a hole in a green duvet, and was wearing it like a poncho), Michael the bartender and John, who was Doc Barry's husband. Old Orla came with her son, Big Michael, who had his wife Carmel and their two daughters – on and on it went, the room crowding until there was some actual warmth to it.

Jamie's wife, young Orla, came out of the back room with little Aislinn in her arms, her normally pale face even paler. "I put batteries in that radio in the back," she said. "It said this weather front's stalled over us. They don't know when it'll warm up."

 _That_ he did not need to hear. "Bloody brilliant," he sighed. At least they could raid the Market if they had to, though Molly would be none too pleased to have her stock dwindle.

"You all know where the forest is," Lord Thranduil said, a little dryly. "We had best go."

A faint shiver went through the crowd. Jamie wasn't the only one who'd been told firmly never to go into that forest – all of them had, from childhood on up. It was just something you didn't do, if you have anything at all between your ears. This went against a lifetime of training.

But go they did, plunging out into the storm, with Lorna carefully sheltering the twins in her borrowed coat.

The cold nearly stole Jamie's breath, creeping through all his layers. The only thing that would warm him up was movement.

Ronan didn't seem to have any problem – he threw himself into the snow with abandon, his sister Mary behind him, cheerfully flailing. To _them_ this was something amazing, not something to worry about.

"Okay hold on," Shannon said, nearly whacking her mother with her cast. " _How_ can you do that?"

Lord bloody Thranduil, it seemed, didn't have to worry about struggling through the snow. Even with his armful of Lorna, he wasn't standing _in_ the snow, but _on_ it.

"That," Siobhan muttered, "is not fair."

"I do not know how you _can't_ do it," he said, with a faint smirk. "Follow me."

Follow they did, with Jamie, Mick, and Alec breaking a pack for the others. The snowflakes stung where they landed on Jamie's face, melting nearly immediately, and he kept having to wipe them out of his eyes.

The village looked alien, buried in so much white – it was as though they'd all been transported to the moon. While it was never precisely noisy to begin with, now it was eerily silent – even their voices seemed muffled, somehow. It was beautiful, but it was also creepy.

He was a strong man, and in good enough shape, but he was nevertheless tiring less than halfway there. Mairead's husband and the rest of their children joined the group, the kids lobbing snowballs at one another, but Jamie pressed grimly on, until they'd reached the edge of the forest.

He wasn't the only one who hesitated, gripped by unease. Lord Thranduil didn't seem inclined to wait for them, though, so in they went.

The snow wasn't as deep in here, though that wasn't saying much – it just meant that there was one foot instead of three. A creek, rimmed with ice, gurgled to the right, but beyond that it was silent.

How strange, to be in here. It looked like any ordinary forest, but it didn't _feel_ like one. There was a… _tingling_ , almost, alien but not unpleasant. He wondered if it was the magic he'd always been warned of, that would trap any trespassers.

How _lonely_ must Lord Thranduil have been, in here all by himself for centuries? It was no wonder he'd so firmly latched onto Lorna, and it explained a bit about his subtle obsession. It was beautiful in here, to be sure, but to be alone in it for so long – it was a wonder he wasn't completely mad. But then, at his age, a few centuries might not seem long at all.

Jamie wasn't the only one who had wondered just what kind of house the Elf could live in, and strangely, he wasn't surprised to find that the front door, so to speak, led underground. When it was open, he followed Lord Thranduil, with Orla's hand firm in his.

What he saw halted him a moment, until she smacked his shoulder to keep him moving.

This wasn't a cave – this was like stepping into a whole other world. Somehow, there were rays of sunlight issuing from the roof, and golden lantern-light bathed the high walkways and massive trees – _trees_. It was warm, too, far warmer than he would have expected of a cave at any time, let alone when it was so cold outside.

"Pretty, isn't it?" Lorna asked. Lord Thranduil still hadn't put her down, and Jamie had a feeling he wouldn't, any time soon.

"It's bloody _gorgeous_ ," Orla breathed.

"I told Thranduil that whenever the zombie apocalypse finally happens, we're all moving in here," Lorna said. "There's loads'v space. Thranduil, once we've got the twins settled, we should show them the kitchen. All that food's got to go somewhere. And you really _can_ put me down now," she added.

Lord Thranduil arched an eyebrow. "No, I still think I cannot," he said. "Mistress Mairead, healer Barry, if you would follow me. The rest of you, explore as you like, but do not wander far. It would be easy enough for you to get lost.

Lorna rolled her eyes as he bore her and the twins away, Mairead, Doc Barry, and Shannon in two – apparently the girl refused to be left behind.

Jamie shook his head, and wondered just what they'd got themselves into.

* * *

Mairead hurried after Lord Thranduil, trying not to gawk as she did. Never, ever would she have thought he would live anywhere like _this_ – what of the high walkways weren't stone were massive tree roots, carpeted in places with velvety green moss. It didn't smell at all musty or damp, as she would have expected of a cave; it actually smelled, weirdly, of sunshine.

Gran would love it here, if they could actually coax her out of her cottage. Knowing her, she wouldn't budge until she ran out of either firewood or food.

"Shannon, will you not be careful? You'll be over the edge in a heartbeat if you're not!" Mairead said, exasperated.

"Christ, she's got a point," Lorna said. "Thranduil, we've got to kid-proof this place. I don't want them falling off one'v these and breaking their neck."

"We have time," he said soothingly, and Mairead thought she knew part of the reason he'd managed to seduce Lorna so easily: his voice had probably done half the work for him. It ought to be classified as a weapon, under the right circumstances.

The room he led them to was one of the most beautiful she had ever seen – his bedroom, if the giant four-poster was any indication. It seemed to be more than that, though; two fat armchairs sat beside the fireplace, and he set Lorna in one before kneeling to build a fire. Somehow, though the hearth had to have been cold for days, the room was only a little cool, not freezing.

"They are so small they will both fit in Legolas's bassinet," he said, while the flames crackled to life. "And I will find something to hang their bags of saline and food on."

"Who is Legolas?" Mairead asked, gravitating over to Lorna to look over her shoulder. Incredibly, the little boy was still asleep, but the girl stared up at her with Lorna's eyes – eyes that seemed a bit too focused for a newborn."

"My eldest child," Lord Thranduil said, in a tone that discouraged any further questioning. "I still have all his things, from his infancy."

"Wasn't that a few thousand years ago?" Lorna asked, looking up at him.

He smirked down at her. "Elves live forever, Dilthen Ettelëa. Our goods are made to last. Stay here, and stay warm."

"Yes, Mother," she said, and stuck her tongue out at his retreating back.

"I can't believe he _lives_ here," Shannon said, running her hand over the wall. The dark stone was carved with an impressing of trees, the lines inlaid with silver, slender branches curving upward. "Aunt Lorna, will _you_ live here?"

"Someday," Lorna said. "For now, I like where I am – though that bed's the most comfortable thing I've ever slept on. I'd steal it, if it wasn't practically the size'v my bedroom." She laughed. "Christ did I have a turn the first night I spent here. Thranduil hadn't told me Elves sleep with their eyes open, so when I woke before him, I thought he was dead."

Shannon wrinkled her nose. "They sleep with their eyes open? Creepy."

"It was. Though he told me I look just as dead, from his perspective."

"How romantic," Doc Barry said dryly, carefully lifting the IV bags from Lorna's arms. "Sooner or later, you and I need to talk birth control. I do not think hormone pills will work, considering he is not human."

Mairead's face burned, and she turned away. Really, she didn't know why the subject disturbed her so much – it usually didn't. Perhaps because this was her little sister, who had come to her so raw and so vulnerable.

"Yeah, I'd rather not risk going through _this_ again," Lorna sighed. "Though I can't bloody wait to see Thranduil's face, when I show him what a condom is."

" _Gross_ ," Shannon said. "Ugh, don't even _talk_ about that."

"It is a matter of practicality, Shannon," Doc Barry said serenely. "Someday, you will want to know, too, unless you want to have sixteen children."

Mairead shuddered.

* * *

Aaand they're all nice and safe. Which is a damn good thing, since Colin is not done making a nuisance of himself, despite the discouragement he will receive.

Note: negative 15 degrees Centigrade is 17 degrees Fahrenheit.

I'm still hard at work on _Auth uin i Ettelëai_ , but that one is giving me a bit of trouble, so it's slower to update. I'll get there eventually, though.

Title means "Moving day" in Irish. As always, your reviews fill me with love.


	9. Fionnachtain

In which the villagers are impressed (and several of them begin to think), Thranduil shows Lorna a few things (and she is amazed), Colin gets a nasty shock (though not as nasty a one as the person _he_ shocked). Also, long chapter is long.

* * *

Once the twins were set up in the bassinet – a beautiful thing made of wood, the sides carved like delicate trees – Doc Barry ordered Lorna to bed, and Lorna did not want to go.

"But I want to show everyone around," she protested. "I want to see their faces."

"I didn't put all those stitches in your incision just so you could pop them again by hiking all over," Doc Barry said sternly, regarding her with crossed arms. "Lord Thranduil, back me up."

"The healer is most likely right, Dilthen Ettelëa," he said, carding his fingers through Lorna's tangled hair. "There is much to show – you can lead them around later. Rest, and when I return, I will comb your hair."

"Will you give me a backrub?" she wheedled.

" _And_ a foot rub," he promised, herding her back to the bed. "You have nightclothes here somewhere – put them on and get rid of… _these_." He gestured at her hospital smock, the front still dotted with dried blood.

Mairead eyed him skeptically, arms crossed. "Would you consider giving husband-lessons while we're here? I can't remember the last time Kevin offered to rub my anything."

Lorna snickered. "That's what she said," she muttered, unlacing her left boot.

Shannon burst out laughing, and Mairead pinched the bridge of her nose. "Thank you, the pair'v you."

"You're welcome," Lorna said, with what little innocence she could muster.

"I will see what might be done, Mistress Mairead," Thranduil said dryly. "If you will come with me, I will show you to rooms for your family. Lorna, rest."

"Yes, Mother," she said, rolling her eyes.

"I will stay a while," Doc Barry said. "Otherwise I think she will stay up out of pure spite."

Lorna wanted to protest, but the doc was kind of right. Not that she'd be able to manage it or very long; she really _was_ still tired. Her limbs felt unpleasantly heavy, and there was a certain sandy quality to her eyes that she couldn't ignore.

"I will return, Dilthen Ettelëa. Rest knowing that you and the twins are safe here."

That _was_ a relief. The police or whoever could look all they liked – no one would find them in here. No one outside the village knew _here_ even existed.

Her pyjamas were a combination of his world and hers – soft, vivid purple fleece trousers, adorned with cat heads, and a long, warm nightdress of some incredibly soft green fabric. The trousers were a hand-me-down from Niamh, Mairead's younger daughter, but Thranduil had yet to tell her where the nightdress came from. It smelled like the forest, like the ghost of a summer day.

She slipped both on and climbed into bed, watching the firelight play over the bassinet, while Doc Barry fussed with the IV's. There were going to have to be many such combinations, because she would never be an Elf, and he would never be human, but their children were effectively both, until they made a decision one way or another. They needed to know about both worlds, so that that decision was well-informed.

For Thranduil's sake, she hoped they chose to be Elves. Yes, it would mean that once she died, she'd never see them again, but she couldn't bear the thought of him being all alone once she'd passed. He'd been on his own for like a thousand years before he met her – it might be a thousand more before he found someone else, assuming human civilization even survived that long. She would never wish that on someone she loved.

The thought startled Lorna, and she rolled onto her back, staring up at the carved branches that formed the canopy. _Did_ she love him? She'd been fond of him from the start, sure, but she hadn't known him enough to trust his feelings. Now, though…he hadn't left her side at the hospital. Her safety, her happiness, seemed to be the most important thing to him.

There was, she was sure, a level of darkness in him. She'd seen hints of it – most blatantly, if one could call anything about him blatant, when he was confronted by the doctor. Lorna had no doubt at all he was capable of killing someone he saw as a threat.

But she had her own darkness, and she had a feeling Thranduil wouldn't judge her for it. No, she'd never killed anyone on purpose, but she'd done some terrible things to people. Granted, they'd all been trying to do terrible things to _her_ , but still. There was a difference between punching someone to drive them off, and knocking them down to give them a Glasgow smile. These last months were the first time in her life she hadn't had a hair-trigger temper; even when traveling with Liam, she'd been ready and willing to beat the tar out of anyone who looked at them wrong. Liam was a gentle soul he wouldn't have been able to protect himself, so she'd done it for him.

Thranduil very obviously needed no protection. His strength alone was terrifying, but she'd seen enough of his reflexes to know they were much faster than hers. He needed no protection, but she'd protect him anyway. He, like Liam, made her want to be a better person, and that – _that_ was love. For good or ill, Lorna had never had a problem with who and what she was, but he made her want to be…more. More than a woman who had grown up dealing with life with her fists and teeth, rather than her brain.

Yes, she loved him. And in a way he was entirely unique: she need never worry that he too would die, and leave her alone. He wouldn't abandon her for greener pastures, wouldn't cheat on her; something in her doubted he would even lie to her. There was a streak of darkness in him, but there was in everyone.

Liam had known very little of her past. He would not have judged her for it if he did know, but she'd feared to tell him anyway, because she hadn't wanted to taint the way he looked at her. Thranduil, however, was six thousand years old; he'd probably done worse than her, and more than once. There wasn't anything in her past she feared to share with him. And if that wasn't love, she didn't know what was. That did not, however, mean she was ready to _tell_ him just yet.

* * *

Mairead, in spite of everything, was fascinated. Thirty-eight years she'd lived in this village, and she'd had no idea this was here.

She could do without the high walkways, especially with Shannon flailing about in front of her, but never had she seen or imagined anything like this.

They passed a waterfall – a bloody _waterfall_ – the spray catching a rainbow from the sunlight that shouldn't exist. How could such massive trees grow in here? Their branches formed an uneven lattice over the roof, their leaves still green in the dead of winter. Lord Thranduil was right; even the entire population of the village nowhere near filled it. This place was made for tens of thousands of people, yet he had been all alone here for centuries.

Why in God's name would anyone leave this? She could well understand why he'd stayed, yet it had to be a bittersweet thing, knocking about in here by himself. Mairead was a pragmatic sort, and not overly given to sentiment, but she felt terribly sorry for him. All her life she'd feared him, and she was probably right to, but now she couldn't help but pity him. So strong, so ancient and powerful – and yet so alone.

"You are very quiet, Mistress Mairead," he said from behind her, and she jumped a little.

"I've always known you lived in the forest," she said, "but I never gave much thought as to what your home was like. Though even if I had, I'd never've imagined _this_."

She paused, and turned to him. He was watching her closely with his unsettling pale eyes, his head tilted slightly to one side. Mairead wasn't a short woman, but he towered over her. Hell, he was taller than Bit Jamie. "I'll be blunt, Lord Thranduil: you're bloody terrifying, but I think the world lost more than it'll ever know, when your people left. Though given the state'v it the last few thousand years, I can't say I blame them."

He gave her a tiny smile – a real smile, not a smirk. "I only hope the rest of your village thinks the same."

"Trust me, they will. They—"

"Shiiit!"

Behind her, Shannon flailed and slipped, and Mairead's heart lurched. Before she could try to grab her, Lord Thranduil darted around her with unnerving speed for one so tall, and caught Shannon's un-injured arm.

"You must be careful, little Shannon," he said, righting her. "You can hardly throw snowballs with _two_ broken arms."

Mairead burst out laughing before she could help it.

* * *

By unspoken consensus, none from the village wandered far. Instead they ranged themselves out on the mossy, rocky ground, and ate lunch.

Siobhan looked around with open wonder as she ate a sandwich of peanut butter and slightly frozen strawberry jam. She'd wondered all her life about Lord Thranduil and his forest, though she'd never been mad enough to go near it. She was curious, but she wasn't stupid.

Though she'd never told anyone, she'd seen him once, when she was a child. She'd sat up late, reading with a torch, and she'd just happened to look up at the right time to see him passing in the distance. It had been a full moon, and his hair and his silver robe had almost seemed to glow.

Weirdly, she hadn't been afraid. She'd known, with the stark clarity of children, that she needn't fear him so long as she left him alone. Her mam, like all the other mothers, had used him as a kind of bogeyman to frighten their kids into good behavior, but Siobhan had realized at once that he wasn't a monster – he was just a person, going about his business. Sure, he was basically an alien, but he wasn't going to smash her window and cook her into a pie because she'd sat up late.

It was why she didn't fear him now. Sure, he was dangerous as hell, but he wouldn't come to the village so openly if he didn't want to be seen, and he'd fallen in love with – and knocked up – a human. As long as nobody fucked with Lorna or his kids, he probably wasn't going to hurt anyone. Though she pitied the person who tried to mess with his family.

When she'd finished her sandwich, she hauled herself to her feet and looked around. A little c reek wound through the stones, crystal-clear, and she tipped her fingers in it. Of course it was frigid, but it smelled…different. She couldn't describe it – it wasn't quite sweet, but it was close, and she leaned over to sniff it. Drinking it probably wasn't safe, but it was tempting.

She sat back, and looked around. "How big is this place?" she wondered aloud.

"It runs under perhaps an eighth of Eire."

Siobhan flailed, and nearly fell into the water. She hadn't heard Lord Thranduil approach at all. "It's _that_ big?" she asked, rising. "How has no one ever found it through, I dunno, drilling?"

"Most of it is very deep underground," he said, his eyes roving the group. The entire population of the village was a little over three hundred, and it looked much smaller in this vast space. "Why do you not fear me, Mistress Siobhan?" he asked, looking back at her. This close, she could see there were flecks of silver in his eyes.

She shrugged. "I knew I didn't need to, so long as I stayed out'v your way, so I stayed out'v your way. If you did half the things in the stories that're told about you, nobody would stay in the village. It would've been empty ages ago. Nuala, she's always known the same. It's just commons sense."

He snorted, and it was such an incongruously _human_ sound. "Someday, you people must tell me all of these stories," he said. "I would very much like to know what has been twisted over the generations."

Siobhan winced. "You probably wouldn't," she said. "Some'v them are pretty bad."

He arched an eyebrow. "That will only make them more interesting."

Somehow, she didn't think that would end well. At all.

* * *

Colin couldn't believe his luck. He was also slightly terrified.

He'd taken to pouring over the Donovan twins' bloodwork on his breaks, as though staring at it long enough would somehow bring him an epiphany. He was doing exactly that on his lunch break when Doctor Corcoran sat across from him.

Andrew Corcoran was a bit of a legend. Somewhere in his fifties, with an impressive thatch of salt-and-pepper hair, he was the best neurosurgeon the hospital had ever had. He also had the reputation of being something of a martinet, and Colin would freely admit he was daunted by the man.

"Every time I see you, you're staring at that," he said, taking a bite of a bearclaw. "What is it?"

"Nothing," Colin said, embarrassed. "Just the Donovan twins' bloodwork. There are a few…anomalies, but she and her boyfriend took off with them before I could run any more tests. They're the ones that stole the ambulance."

Doctor Corcoran snorted. "Mad, they are. I'm surprised they didn't wind up back in here."

Colin shook his head, a little ruefully. "Donovan – Lorna – seems like a pretty stubborn woman, and her boyfriend even more so. Creepy bloke, he was. I've never seen eyes like that in my life, though hers weren't much better. I wouldn't put it past the pair'v them to have made it all the way back to Lasgaelen."

To his immense shock, Doctor Corcoran paled. As he was a rather ruddy man, it was quite noticeable. "Doctor O'Donnell," he said, his voice not quite steady, "what did he look like?"

Colin stared. "Well, he was bloody tall – six five, at least – with long blond hair. Pale blond, almost white, and his eyes, they were pale, too. Blue, very blue, but pale. I thought they were contacts at first."

Doctor Corcoran dropped his bearclaw, his complexion so grey Colin feared he would pass out. What was wrong with him? Colin hadn't thought anything could stun him like this. "Doctor, are you all right?"

"Colin, I am going to give you some advice," he said, deadly serious. "It may sound mad, but it may well safe your life: destroy those. Don't pursue this. I grew up in Lasgaelen – I know who that man is. He is incredibly possessive of what he considers his, and if he thinks you're at threat to that, he _will_ kill you."

Colin wanted to think he was joking, but there was nothing but gravity in his tone and expression. Hell, it was more than gravity – the man was outright spooked.

Colin looked down at the bloodwork, and back up at Corcoran. "He's not human, is he?" he asked. "That's why the results are so…wrong."

"No," Doctor Corcoran said bluntly. "He's lived outside the village as long as there's _been_ a village. Burn that, and don't tell anyone. If he has a wife and a family to protect, he may well hunt you down anyway."

Colin thought of how solicitous the man had been to Lorna – it bordered on obsessive, and always when she wasn't looking. "What _is_ he?"

"None'v us know for sure," Doctor Corcoran said, picking up his bearclaw. "Only that he's immortal, and that no one who goes into that forest ever comes out with their sanity intact – if they come out at all. You do _not_ want to tangle with him, Colin. He's more dangerous than anyone else you'll ever meet."

"How can anyone live there, with him so close?"

"Because if we leave him alone, he leaves us alone," Corcoran said. "It's been that way since forever."

"Well, he very obviously didn't leave Lorna Donovan alone," Colin snorted. "Maybe he's decided to be more active."

"They God help the village, because no one else can."

* * *

Eventually, Lorna had fallen asleep. When she woke, it was to Thranduil and Doc Barry hovering over the twins.

"Your children really are remarkable, Lorna," the doctor said, when she sat up. "Already they are more aware than any newborn I have ever seen."

Lorna struggled to her feet and looked down. Sure enough, both twins were looking up, their green eyes focused and curious.

"Well, they _are_ half Elf," she said. "How are they otherwise?"

"Surprisingly stable. You will not, I think, be able to nurse them, but they seem far hardier than I would expect of babies so premature."

Well, that was a relief, considering she hadn't produced any milk. Pregnancy had left her with disappointingly little in the way of tits; apparently she was doomed to remain flat-chested until the end of time. She'd gone rather soft around the middle, which felt weird, but she hadn't lost any of her muscle. Once this incision healed, she was pretty sure she could be as active as she liked again. "Have we got enough'v that food for them?"

"For now. In a few weeks I will have to order more. I brought all we had of it and saline, in case we are here a while."

Lorna wondered just how long 'a while' would prove to be. She wanted to go see the snow, but she hesitated to leave the twins, for all they seemed to be fine.

"Thranduil, d'you think – could we go up top for a bit?" she asked, glancing from him to Doc Barry and back again.

"If he is willing to carry you, I have no objection," the doctor said. "I will stay with the twins. Lord Thranduil, do not let her walk around, no matter how much she pesters you."

"I think I can manage that," he said dryly. "Put on something warmer, Dilthen Ettelëa, and I will take you to see the snow."

"Put on _what_ , exactly?" she asked. She didn't have any of her regular clothes here, and she'd be swamped in his.

He gave her something that was half-smirk, half-smile. "Wait here," he said, and made his utterly silent way out the door.

Lorna shook her head. "I am buying him a bell," she said. "He has way too much fun sneaking up on people." She reached down to stroke Saoirse's fuzz of pale hair, stained reddish in the firelight. It was too early to tell what her ears would be like, but somehow, her complexion seemed to favor Lorna's more than Shane's did. Thank God neither were as white as their da, because while Thranduil probably didn't sunburn, the twins were half human, and likely would. "I hope they wind up taller than me," she said.

"They're awfully big for preemies," Doc Barry said. "They probably will be. Though I hope they are not as tall as their father – with that hair and your eyes, they will stand out enough as it is, even if they have not inherited their father's ears. Though at least there is plastic surgery, if they wish it."

Lorna kind of hoped they wouldn't, though it would be safer if they did. She didn't want them to hide what they were, but realistically, they had to, if they ever wanted to venture beyond the village. Unlike Thranduil, this was the only world they would ever know. And that was incredibly fucking sad.

They ought to have more siblings, but she just didn't think she could do that again. Besides, she was twenty-nine; she only had a few more years where it would be _safe_ for her to have kids. At least she'd wound up with two on the first try.

When Thranduil returned, he had a pair of deep brown trousers, a dark green tunic-thing, and a heavy brown cloak, all of which looked like they would fit suspiciously well. "Those belonged to a child, didn't they?" she asked.

"They did," he affirmed, laying them out on the bed. "Tauriel, my ward."

"And you've kept them all this time?" she asked, running her fingers over the tunic. That was surprisingly sentimental.

"Well, I _did_ raise her," he said. "Her parents were killed when she was very small. She was the only survivor of her village, and when I found her, she refused to let go of me. Raising her was easier than sending her away."

"Uh-huh," Lorna said dubiously. He'd probably never admit he found the kid too cute to let go of, but she was sure that was the case.

She wondered just how old these clothes were, as she kicked off her pyjama trousers and pulled on the ones he'd brought. They didn't look or _feel_ old, but he had to have had them for at least a thousand years. The Elves really did make their stuff to last. She couldn't identify the material, but it was soft and warm, and the tunic even more so. The cloak she'd leave off until they were outside, or she was afraid she'd roast.

Once she'd stuffed her feet into her boots, Thranduil picked her up, and off they went. She wondered what the rest of the village was doing, and hoped nobody had got lost. Even in all the months she'd been visiting, _she_ still hadn't seen the whole of the caves.

When they reached the door, she had Thranduil set her down so she could put on her heavy cloak, and they stepped out into an alien world of white.

The light had grown even stranger, though she wasn't sure if that was the effect of the weather or the forest. The cold made her lungs burn, but it was bracing rather than unpleasant. While it was likely dumping outside the trees, in here, the snowflakes fluttered down intermittently.

"I wish it did this more often," she said, taking an experimental step. The snow squeaked beneath her boot. "I know it's a bloody nuisance, and it'll be a bigger one when this melts and everything floods, but it's just so damn _beautiful_."

She looked up at Thranduil, and found a trace of hesitation in his pale eyes. "Lorna, do you trust me?"

"I wouldn't be here if I didn't," she said, and meant it.

He took her hands, which were already chilled. "I would like to show you something, but I must touch your mind to do it."

"Touch my _mind_?" she asked, staring. "Like what, telepathy?" Christ, was there no end to his bag of tricks?

"Something like that, yes," he said seriously. Cloudy though it was, she'd swear she could see moonlight shining off his hair. "But only if you grant me permission."

That…okay, that was a big thing to ask. Her mind was, well, her _mind_ – but this was Thranduil. If there was one thing she was absolutely certain of, it was that he would never, ever hurt her.

"Okay," she said, a little unsteadily. "Just don't go digging around in there, all right?"

"I will not," he said, giving her fingers a light squeeze. "I wish to show, not read."

He turned her to face away from the door, standing behind her, still holding her hands. She wondered what he had in mind, until her vision…shifted.

If there were any words to describe it, she didn't have them. Glimmering ghost-images appeared before her eyes, each with their own pale radiance – people, tall men and women, wearing either dresses or tunics of the sort she now wore. Though some were obviously speaking, she couldn't hear anything; this was strictly visual. They moved with such inhuman fluidity that they had to be Elves, even without a clear view of their ears, and they shone like starlight, outlined in a luminescence that ebbed and flared like a heartbeat.

"What…?" she asked, but was unable to finish the question.

"The forest has its own memory," Thranduil said, his breath a warm ghost against the crown of her head. "You cannot see it, but I can."

Lorna hadn't realized the forest had its own consciousness, but really, she should have. It had had Elves living in it for at least five thousand years; it had probably become – oh, hell, what was the term? A genius loci? Something like that.

"Is this really how you see _everything_ , all the time?" she asked. She'd known he could see souls, but this – _this_ was almost overwhelming. This would be like a permanent acid trip, albeit a good one.

"It is," he said, running his fingers through her tangled hair. "All Elves see thus. I do not know whether our children will or not, as they are physically mostly Edain."

"How come they're like that, and not Elves?" she asked, unable to take her eyes off the translucent figures.

"Because you are their mother. All the other Peredhel – half-Elves – were at their base Elvish, for the mothers were all Eldar. Ours will likely age as Edain do, at least at first; we will not have forty-year-old teenagers."

Lorna shuddered. "Thank God for that." She looked down at the fluffy white around them. "Thranduil, have you ever built a snowman?"

"Not in a very, very long time, and I do not think you should," he said. "If you aggravate your incision, your healer may well order bed rest."

She made a face. "You're probably right, dammit. It just figures that the one time we get snow, I'm all but laid up."

"This will not be going anywhere any time soon," he said. "After a few more days of rest, I am certain your healer will allow you more liberty."

Lorna wasn't counting on it. While she was a sturdy little creature, some things just took time to get over, and having your abdomen sliced open was probably one of them. "D'you have anything that'll help it heal faster?" she asked, looking up at him.

"I might," he said, smoothing the hair back from her forehead. "I will take you to the healing wards, and we shall see."

* * *

Kevin Corcoran was rather worried, for he was quite certain Colin would not leave well enough alone – and equally certain it would end badly for him. Kevin _had_ to get to Lasgaelen before he did, and warn the rest of the village, but _how_? Even with the few snowplows they'd managed to borrow – most from Norway and Sweden – it was coming down so hard that they'd no sooner get a stretch plowed than they had to start over again.

It meant Colin wasn't going anywhere yet, either, but the lad was still on the young side, and so curious he might well do something reckless. The village needed warning, but the mobile network was down all over the place, and the only landline Kevin remembered was the pub – which no one was answer. Like a fool, he no longer had a paper phone book, and as the internet was down, he couldn't check one online.

The power kept flickering in his flat, too, which worried him. He had a fireplace, but it was gas; if he lost power, it would be useless. He'd been running it since he got off work, leaving the flat sweltering – but he might well be glad of that later.

He had the next two days off, and he wasn't on-call. One way or another, he'd find a way to get to Lasgaelen, before Colin could get his fool self killed.

* * *

At least Bridie and the Americans will be around to greet either of those two, if they actually make it to Lasgaelen. Bridie's not going anywhere until she absolutely has to.

Title means "Discovery" in Irish. As always, your reviews fill me with light and hope.


	10. Am Scéalaíochta

In which the villagers learn something nasty, Thranduil reaches some unwelcome conclusions, and the village is not, in fact, the only group that knows about him.

* * *

Bridie was well aware the Americans had to be going stir-crazy, though they were too polite to say so. They hauled wood inside, and did every little chore she had, but they were obviously bored to tears – until the girl, Jennifer, looked out the window. She froze, wide-eyed, and swore.

A large gaggle of people – what looked like the whole bloody village, in fact – were treading through the falling snow. At their head was Lord Thranduil, carrying a bundle that was, going by the quantity of hair, probably Lorna. _What_ in God's name were the lot of them doing?

Bridie's eyes narrowed when she saw him lead them all into the forest. He was up to something, but she could hardly go find out _what_ in this weather.

"He's – he's not in Dublin anymore," Jennifer whispered.

"No, he's not, but he'll have his hands full with that lot for a while. Wait fifteen minutes, then go throw that stone back. If you've not got it, he'll be less angry when he finds you're still here," Bridie said.

The boy, Bryan, swallowed audibly. "When?" he repeated.

"There's not much that goes on around here that he doesn't know about," she said, a little grimly. "He'll not _harm_ you, not when the whole village'd find out if he did, but I can't promise he wouldn't lock you up. Village wouldn't mind _that_ – they don't want news'v him getting out any more than he does. He might be a spook, but he's _our_ spook."

Jennifer tore her eyes from the window and looked a Bridie. "What – um, what happens if we run out of food or firewood?" she asked, a little hesitantly.

"Then we'll have to go to him. He'll not leave you out to freeze," Bridie assured her.

"How do you know?" Bryan asked.

"Because Lorna wouldn't let him. I don't think he's capable'v denying her anything, whether she knows it or not. You'll be safe enough – but I've no plans on going anywhere if we've not go to. I've weathered all sorts'v storms in this cottage, even if none'v them were _quite_ like this. We'll manage."

* * *

Mairead wasn't terribly interested in the visiting the kitchen, but Kevil was. Of the pair of them, he was by far the better cook, and interested in _everyone's_ kitchen.

This was vast and echoing and heartbreakingly empty. It was big enough for a score of cooks, with a fireplace a good fifteen feet long and ten high, and a row of iron stoves that looked far too clean for how long they had to have sat unused. The stone floor looked like it had been washed yesterday, the long oak counters seemingly freshly scrubbed – it was waiting for an army of cooks that would never return.

Mairead was not sentimental woman, but Lord Thranduil's halls, though beautiful, hurt her to the core. How many people must have lived here, once? How could he stay here, all alone?

She ran her hand over the counter, the wood satin-smooth under her fingertips. How was Lorna going to fare, if she moved in here? Oh, she would have Lord Thranduil and the twins, but she was used to living with a lot of people and not a lot of space, not the other way around. True, it was hardly far from the village, but there was something so very, very _sad_ about this place. It was a living relic of a world that no longer existed. Of a people who _almost_ didn't exist anymore.

How could she have lived next to this forest all her life, and never really wondered about it? She felt rather terrible now that she'd never investigated, but really, Lorna had been lucky she hadn't got in worse trouble when _she_ did. Thank bloody God she'd offered him that song. Mairead didn't know _what_ would have happened. It had all worked out – so far, at least.

"We should have a bloody big barbecue," she said. "Molly and the lads brought half the Market with them, I swear. Someone has to use this kitchen, before it has a chance to forget what it is."

* * *

Nuala was rabidly curious to see what Lord Thranduil had called the healing wards, so it was as well she had run into him and Lorna on their way back in. She followed, heedless of their chatter, taking in her surroundings with open greed.

The wars, like the cave itself, were _massive_ , far bigger than her little surgery. Immediately through the door was what looked very like a triage room – a large open space, with rows of beds. Each had a pillow and a neatly folded blanket at the foot, and she felt a pang of sorrow when she wondered how long they had sat there, unused.

And yet everything – the bunks, the oak counters, the shelves full of glass jars of all colors and sizes – was weirdly clean for a place that was probably never used. She couldn't imagine Lord Thranduil with a mop and bucket, so who did it?

The further in they went, the stronger the smell of herbs brew – some bitter, some sweet, and all totally foreign to Nuala. She wanted to think they couldn't be as good as modern medicine, but there had to be a reason Elves lived forever.

"Lord Thranduil, how do you keep everything so _clean_?" she asked, as he helped Lorna up onto a bed. This too was apparently a general treatment room, though not as large as the triage area, with more neat rows of beds. "I haven't even seen a single cobweb."

He smirked a little as he sorted through a shelf of jars, no two the same shape or color. "That would be telling," he said, grabbing a red one and a twisted, fluted orange one. "Someday, when I know you all better, there are many things I will tell you, but not yet. Lorna, I need to see your abdomen."

Nuala helped her hike her tunic up and her trousers down. The incision was a bit red, but there were no signs of infection, and she hadn't popped any stitches or staples. "I'll tell you both that you shouldn't have more kids," Nuala said. "Once a woman's had a C-section, odds're good she'll need another with a subsequent pregnancy, and after _this_ horror show, that wouldn't be wise."

"I couldn't do that again anyway," Lorna sighed. "I don't know why any woman would voluntarily do it more than once."

"Most ellyth – female Elves – do not," Lord Thranduil said, opening the red jar. It smelled like feverfew, which Nuala only knew because her granny grew it. "While few die in childbirth, it drains their strength far more than Edain pregnancies."

"What do Elves use for birth control?" Nuala asked, watching him scoop out a clear, jelly-like substance – without washing his hands first, she noticed with a wince.

"We do not need it," he said, approaching Lorna. "Ellyth only conceive when they want to."

"God, that's cold," Lorna said, when he smeared it over her incision. "Y'know, I'm starting to think you lot have the edge over us in almost _everything_. You live forever, your senses are better, you don't get sick – why the hell aren't you the dominant species, and not us?"

"Immortality is as much a curse as a blessing, Dilthen Ettelëa," he said, dabbing at the incision. "In the twenty thousand years my people inhabited this world, our societies remained largely stagnant. When one lives forever, one has little need for change. Your people's lives are so short that you embrace it. Look how very far you have come in little more than a century.

"I could not live in your world. I could not even stay too long in your village without feeling ill. Eldar, for all our seeming advantages, are not adaptable creatures. For thousands upon thousands of years, we had no need to be. And then came the Obliteration."

"What _was_ that, anyway?" Lorna asked, as he fetched the other jar.

"Tonight, when we all eat diner, I will bring the twins with us to the dining hall, and I will tell you," he said. "It is sooner than I would like, but this snowstorm unsettles me, and it is better you know now than later. It is not a pleasant story, but as your people say, to be forewarned is to be forearmed."

Nuala didn't like _that_ at all, and from her expression, neither did Lorna. Anything called the _Obliteration_ had to be worse than unpleasant. It also had to be at least part of why Lord Thranduil was the only Elf left.

* * *

In truth, Thranduil did not at all want to talk about the Obliteration. He didn't want to _think_ about it, but this village, and its people, were his, and its people were his. And he took care of his own.

He finished up with Lorna and sent her off to gather the others. She knew where the dining hall was, though they had never eaten there. After their initial tour, they had spent most of their time in the comfort of his room.

He went to fetch the twins, and wished he had no need to fear, but Thranduil was nothing if not a pragmatist: the plain truth was that this snowstorm was not natural. And he could think of but one reason for it, however much he wished he was wrong.

Something was stirring. Something the world had not seen in a thousand years.

He found healer Barry hovering over the twins. Both were awake now, looking up at her with a focus that was literally inhuman. They did indeed have their mother's eyes – that unearthly green that would not have been out-of-place on one of the Eldar. It had made him question her ancestry; several descendents of the Peredhel had chosen mortality, and he wondered if Lorna was many generations removed from one. It would explain her rather unusual strength, even if there was nothing else that marked her as not entirely Edain. She was certainly susceptible to illness, and didn't seem to heal faster than any other Edain, but she was very strong, and her eyes did not belong in an Edain face. It was enough to make him wonder.

"You look very thoughtful," the healer said.

"Unfortunately, I must soon share my thoughts," he sighed. "Neither you nor anyone else will like any of them."

"Do they have anything to do with the snowstorm?" she asked.

"They have everything to do with it. I fear what it might herald." He unhooked the food and saline bags and carefully tucked them into the bassinet, packed around the twins. Both watched as he picked it up, their eyes tracking his face with full awareness, and they kept watching while he bore them out the door and down the hall, the healer at his heels.

It really was quite strange – though their numbers were so few, his Edain guests made his halls seem far more alike than they had felt in centuries. Perhaps he should have done this long ago. He would not be averse to holding parties in the future. And if things, in time, went as ill as he feared they might…well, there was enough space for his Edain to breed and prosper for centuries. Provided he could find a way to _feed_ them.

Thranduil had known he would have a family with Lorna and the twins. He had not expected to find one in the village. While many of them were still leery of him, some were surprisingly sanguine. And they all conspired to keep his existence a secret from the outside world.

He owed it to them to protect them in return, if necessary.

When he reached the dining-hall, he found Lorna had already gathered everyone, though their group looked pathetically small, barely taking up one end of one long table. They had spread it with paper plates of sandwiches and cold salads, with plastic cups and cans of the swill they called ale, chattering animatedly to one another. Already they looked perfectly at home, and they had been here less than a day.

He set the bassinet on the table near Lorna, letting the healer fuss with the food and saline. Thranduil himself sat on the edge of the table, watching them all.

"The tale I tell you is not pleasant," he said, "nor is it short, but I will spare you the gory details." The _literally_ gory details. "Once, long ago," he went on, running his fingers over his son's downy head, "there were Edain possessed of magical abilities. Some there are still, but very, very few."

He held up is free hand, forestalling questions. "They were never very many, and they hid well, preferring to live in their own communities, rather than risk life in the normal world.

"How long they had existed, I do not know, but a little over a thousand years ago, a sickness befell them – and my people. Most of the Eldar had already left this world by then, but nearly all who had remained, perished. The survivors called it the Obliteration, for it affected every being possessed of even a little magic."

"What caused it?" Nuala asked.

Thranduil sighed. "One of the Gifted, as they called themselves. He sought immortality, and while he found it, he contracted the plague that doomed almost the whole of his kind and mine."

He paused, staring at nothing. "We trapped him, in the end – those of us that survived. He has been imprisoned outside this world for a thousand years. I question, however, just how effective his prison is – because of this storm. Errant magic has always most frequently discharged itself in the weather. While I have felt none stir in _this_ world, this is not the _only_ world."

As he had expected, this was greeted with silence. It likely _would_ be difficult for the pragmatic Edain of modern Earth to wrap their minds around. Finally, Mairead's eldest raised her hand.

"How did you survive?" she asked.

He smiled, grim and humorless. "I did as I have always done," he said. "I stayed here, as long as I could. And it is here, if that waking nightmare ever walks the world again, that you will stay as well. You will call back all those of your family who have scattered, and you will live in safety until he can be dealt with once more. No Edain, no matter how much power he wields, can breach my forest against my direct will.

"I do not know how it is that you acquire food, but I want you to start hoarding it. It might be years yet ere something comes of my fears, but when there does come a time we must seal ourselves away, we must be able to eat. And that time _will_ come – of that I am sure, though I wish I was not."

"Why – why would you do that for us?" Big Jamie asked. He had his youngest seated on his knee, a protective arm wrapped around her.

Thranduil arched an eyebrow. "You _are_ all on my land," he said. "Edain you may be, but that makes me your King, and it is a terrible King who fails to protect his own people. Say nothing to your expatriate family yet, but know that you must, when I give the word."

Thranduil actually slept that night – a mistake, for talk of the Obliteration inevitably stirred up nightmarish memory.

The island of Eire had been sparsely populated then; every time the numbers of the Edain began to swell, some disease came along and culled them.

A small village of Gifted had lived on the edge of his forest – it was much larger then, still stretching over nearly a quarter of the island. But for them, he would not have known the nature of the malady that befell the world.

He'd _felt_ it falling immediately, he and the few of his people who remained: it was a strange, dark tingling, a prickling within his mind. He'd been walking in the woods one warm, sunny afternoon, and halted dead in his tracks, icy horror washing over him.

Something had gone wrong. Something had gone very, very wrong, something so evil and _alien_ that he had never felt it's like in all of his five thousand years. He shuddered, wracked with disgust, revulsion crawling through him. Whatever it was, it wasn't just wrong, it was _profane._

Perhaps, if he had had Galadriel's Mirror, he might have been able to do something sooner. If he had only known what it was that they faced…but no one could have known. Not until they _were_ faced with it.

He'd walked to the edge of the forest, to the village o the Gifted, and looked up at the blue, blue sky, half expecting to see some visible taint. The Gifted themselves had not felt it, he learned later, but that was no surprise; while they possessed magic, their senses did not differ from those of any other Edain.

They greeted his arrival with no small amount of trepidation, emerging from their huts. They were used to seeing Elves, for a few of his people often visited them, but he himself had not come to the village since well before the eldest of them were born. While they did not precisely _fear_ him – he had never given them cause, and his people were friendly – they were wary.

This lot, thanks to the influence of their neighbors, were rather cleaner than most Edain, and better-fed. Few could read in their own tongue, but many read Tengwar, and they all knew at least a smattering of Sindarin. Which was just as well, since he knew next to nothing of their language.

Their leader, such as they even had one, was an old woman by the standards of her kind, stooped and wrinkled, with piercing eyes so dark they were nearly black. She read auras, and his must have been quite unsettled, for her eyes widened.

"Something stirs," he said, before she could ask. "I do not yet know what it is, and until I do, I suggest you not travel abroad. You are safe here."

He had not yet known it, but he lied. And he made a fatal mistake.

He should have taken them with him. Eru knew that by then he had far more than enough room; he should have brought them into the safety of his forest.

The pestilence started in Eire; while it did not affect ordinary Edain, they could spread it. When next he visited the village, it was because one of the healers all but dragged him there, and he found that every single one of them was very dead.

And they had died horribly. Blood leaked from their blank, sightless, lifeless eyes, from noses and ears, their bodies forever twisted in poses of agony.

It had struck him surprisingly hard. Yes, they were Edain, and if there was one thing Edain excelled at, it was dying, but they had been _his_ Edain, blessed with their own form of magic.

He should not have left them. And, whatever was coming, he would not make the same mistake. He would not leave this village, even if they _were_ likely immune.

Why he had been spared, he did not know to this day – for his healer had brought it back with her, and half of his own people had bled and sweat their lives away, delirious with fever.

And _that_ should have been _impossible_. It was how he had known this was no ordinary pestilence. Eldar simply did not sicken, ever, yet this felled his people like a scythe through wheat. It was a slow, lingering nightmare of a death, one he would not wish even upon his enemies of old.

And yet, somehow, he had been spared.

He nursed the dying himself, for he would allow no other to risk their lives in doing so. And one by one, he buried them, for none who contracted the disease survived. None.

And then….

He had lied to Lorna, about Legolas taking ship. _Why_ , he didn't know, for he had not lied about anything else. Somehow, it was a secret he was simply unable to share, even a thousand years later – even with the woman he loved.

The boy had come to the healing wards, which by now were half-empty, glassy-eyed, his cheeks flushed with fever in his pallid face, and the bottom dropped out of Thranduil's world. For Legolas, at least, the end came quickly; he was dead within days, rather than lingering a week or more, and Thranduil….

In truth, Thranduil remembered little of what followed. He nursed and buries his people, and then he took up his sword, leaving the survivors safe at home. He met up with the scattering of the world's Gifted who were as yet unaffected – he, and what few other Eldar remained – and they…took care of things. Permanently.

Or so they thought. He was very much afraid they were wrong.

* * *

Lorna lay awake long after Thranduil had gone to sleep – and she only knew he _was_ asleep thanks to the fixed blankness of his stare. That would never not be creepy.

His hair spread out on the pillow like a pale corona, his skin almost luminescent in the dancing light of the fire. He had a habit of sleeping naked – which had been pretty tempting, a time or two, when her hormones had been spiking – and her eyes traveled the flawless expanse of his chest. How could anyone's skin be so pristine?

He was tense, though, even in sleep, so tense she could feel it without touching him. No doubt he was having a nightmare – if Elves could even have nightmares.

He twitched in his sleep, brow furrowing, and she scooted closer to him, lightly running her fingers through his silky hair. "It's all right, allanah," she said softly. "Whatever it is, it's just a dream." She smoothed the line between his eyebrows with her thumb, her touch light and soothing. "You're her with us, with me and Shane and Saoirse. Wake up, now."

Thranduil twitched again, but she knew from the change in his breathing that this time he was awake. He grabbed her, pulling her close, bringing her head to rest against his chest.

"Let me guess," she said, pressing her cheek against his skin, "the Obliteration?"

"Yes," he said, the word a canyon-deep sigh. He twined his fingers in her tangled hair. "I have seen many horrors in my life, Dilthen Ettelëa, but that was the worst by far. I fear – I fear this might be my fault, at least in part."

"How?" she asked, tracing an idle pattern over his chest with her fingers.

"It has been nearly two thousand years since any Eldar were born into this world," he sighed. "Yes, our children are Peredhel, and physically they are predominately Edain, but their fëa are a blend of both. That this storm should occur so soon after their birth cannot be a coincidence."

A sliver of ice worked its way into Lorna's heart. "Why?" she asked. "Why would that do… _this_?"

Thranduil stroked her hair. "Eldar are possessed of more magic than I have ever shown you," he said. "I had not thought – well, I had not thought. You longed for a child and I gave you two, without pausing to consider the consequences.

"There has been so very little magic in this world for a thousand years. I think, perhaps, that it did not know what to do with it." He sighed again. "And I fear we may have…visitors, if any of those who remain still remember I exist."

"Those?" she questioned.

"Descendants of the few surviving Gifted. They will not be pleased with us – with me. _You_ could hardly have been expected to know better, but _I_ should have."

She sat up enough to look at him. "They'll not try to hurt the twins, will they?"

"No," he assured her, trailing her fingers over her arm. "They do not kill their own kind. And should anyone be foolish enough to think it a wise idea, none would dare cross _me_."

 _That_ she could well believe. Lorna had a feeling Thranduil could be completely terrifying, if he chose.

* * *

Miranda Black stood in the DMA's meteorology center, frowning at the dark blue Rorschach blot on the large wall-screen.

Strange weather events were far from uncommon, and hadn't been for twenty years. The DMA tracked all of them, and none had proved to be anything out of the ordinary.

Until now.

The only reason the damn thing wasn't even worse was because the Trees were working overtime to absorb it. And unfortunately, she knew what – who – was causing it. It was the one person left on Earth she couldn't knock out.

"You've got that expression," Julifer said. A yeah and a half shorter than Miranda, she was a young Maori woman with a vivid purple pixie cut and more tattoos than Miranda had ever seen on one person. "You know what this is, so spill. What do we do about it?"

Miranda sighed. "Nothing," she said. "I _do_ know what it is, and who did it, but there's not a damn thing we can do except chew him out. As if he'd care."

"He _ought_ to care," Julifer said. "It's dangerous. Who is it?"

"Lord Thranduil," Miranda sighed. "The last of the Eldar. He does what he wants. We'd best go see just what the he hell he _is_ doing, because he ought to know better." She really didn't want to know what it was, or why, because there was a reason he'd been left alone for so long. Several reasons.

* * *

Thranduil is in fact going to get several visitors, which will be all kinds of fun for everyone involved.

Title means "Story Time" in Irish. As always, your reviews fill me with light and hope. And candy. Mmm candy.


	11. Cuairteoirí

In which Lorna and Thranduil get in their first fight, they have a small stream of visitors, and she tells him she loves him in a way that's very…well, _Lorna._

* * *

The next day, Lorna and Thranduil unhooked the twins from their assorted bags for a while, and took them for a little walk around the halls. They were already so aware that he thought it good they see one-half of what would be their home.

She looked down at Shane's big green eyes, which were roving around, taking in the trees and pillars. Doc Barry would probably be pissed that she was out of bed, but the doc could deal with it. Her kids needed stimulation – they couldn't just lie in that cot forever, no matter how pretty it was.

She'd swear they'd both grown, too, impossible though that was. They didn't look quite so fragile, for all they were still both way smaller than any respectable newborn.

"Will they sound like you or me, I wonder?" she asked. "Because you sound bloody English."

Thranduil smirked. "No," he said, "the English sound like _me_. One of the last colonies of the Eldar was located in the island of Britannia. There, and in the land you call Scandinavia."

"Then why don't _they_ sound like you?" she demanded.

"They do. They sound like the Eldar that once lived there. Our accents could vary as much as the Edain, Dilthen Ettelëa, even if our cultures do not differ so much as yours.

"Someday, when the children are older, I will take you across the ocean, to the northern lands which once held a vast empire of my people. We have always found it easier to live where there are fewer of you, and in that part of the world there were next to no Edain for thousands of years. We could move freely, without fear of discovery."

"How d'you know there aren't any still there?" she asked.

"I would feel them, if there were," he said, that now-familiar thread of sorrow in his voice. "With magic mostly gone from the world, they could not stay. They _would_ not stay."

"And you couldn't bear to leave." Lorna still couldn't imagine _why_ , but she doubted he knew himself. "I'm glad you didn't, or I'd never've met you." She didn't want to imagine what her life would have been like, otherwise – stable, yes, and safe, but one of her worst faults was how easily she got bored. She would have been raising hell by now, without him, just for something to do.

"I knew, for whatever reason, that I must stay," he said. "Perhaps it was to meet you."

That was one of the sweetest damn things anyone had ever said to her, and she had no idea what to do with it. When it came to emotional things, she was not, as Mairead would say, good at using her words. "Maybe," she said awkwardly, watching Shane yawn. "This little one needs a nap, I think. We'd best get them settled."

As the twins needed constant watching, they'd moved the bassinet to the dining-hall, where there were always at least a few people about. It mean nobody was stuck in Thranduil's bedroom, away from the others.

Halfway there, beside the little chuckling creek, Thranduil paused, and raised his head.

"What?" she asked.

"Someone is in my forest," he said darkly. "I must investigate, once we have settled the twins."

"I'm coming with you," Lorna said firmly. "Don't you give me that look, Thranduil Oropherion. It's my forest too, now."

He looked poised to argue, so she poked him in the chest, carefully avoiding Saoirse. " _No_ ," she said. "You do not get to leave me down here."

He shook his head, starting on again toward the dining hall. "It could be dangerous," he said, cradling little Saoirse.

"Thranduil, before I came to this village, very little in my life could have been counted as _safe_ ," she retorted. "And have you forgot Grand Theft Ambulance? I'm not some badass Elf, but I'm not exactly helpless."

A glance at his pale profile told her he was irritated, but that was fine. Lorna had known she'd annoy him sooner or later, and she'd actually had a feeling that this would be why. An American would call him old-school – _very_ old-school in some ways, and over-protectiveness was one of them. And _that_ she was not going to stand for. Not for nothing had she been taking care of herself her entire life.

The dining-hall had Mick and Alec playing checkers on an improvised board, and a smattering of people still eating brunch. The twins would be looked after just fine, so she deposited Shane in the bassinet without worry. She didn't dare hook up his food and saline by herself; Nuala, still drinking tea, would have to do that herself.

"Stay here," Thranduil ordered, gently laying down Saoirse.

"Yeah, _nope_ ," she said, already heading for the door. It was best he learn this lesson now.

" _Lorna_ ," he snapped, caching her up in three strides.

She turned, and arched an eyebrow. "Thranduil, d'you _really_ want to have this out in front'v an audience?"

"I wouldn't mind," Mick called.

"Shut it," she said, looking at Thranduil. "The only people who could be out there in weather like this are my gran and those bloody Americans. I'll not let you go by yourself and scare the bloody life out'v them." Which he would. He totally and completely would.

His only answer was a glare, and while that would have quailed most people, she was not one of them. She knew him too well. With her, if with no one else, he was all bark and no bite.

So she turned on her heel and headed for the door again, quite certain he'd start giving out at her as soon as they were away from their audience.

And sure enough, she was right. They were passing through the mossy roots of two mammoth trees when he said, "Lorna, I cannot allow you to do this."

She sent him a glower as frigid as the air outside. "Let me make one thing crystal bloody clear, Thranduil Oropherion: you have no say at all in what I do – or do not – do. I'll have no more talk at all about 'allowing' _anything_. I swore once I got out'v gaol that nothing and no one would control me ever again, and it's not a vow I'll break. And you'd best wrap your head around that now."

He looked genuinely startled by the vehemence in her tone, and she didn't wonder why. She'd never spoken to him of her time in prison, but clearly she was going to have to, once she actually had a chance.

"Lorna, I am only trying to protect you."

"I don't need protection," she growled. She was being unreasonable, and even she knew it, but he'd struck a very sore point with her. She'd run across far too many people in her life who though she was helpless solely because she was tiny and female, and while most of those people had been trying to hurt her, a few had thought she belonged in a box, surrounded by cotton wool.

None of this was at all Thranduil's fault, but her temper was rising, and she never had been able to stem it once it started.

"Lorna, you are _Edain_ ," he insisted.

"And whoever's out there is _also_ Edain," she snapped. "I am not a doll, Thranduil. You do not get to put me in a box because you _think_ something might be dangerous. Unless it's the Thing from the Black Lagoon, I'll be _fine_."

"But Lorna, you are _tiny_ ," he snapped in return.

She halted, the blood draining from her face, and very carefully counted to ten. "Just this once, I'm going to pretend you didn't say that," she said flatly. "I suggest you never say it again. I've put humans as big as you in hospital. I. Will. Be. _Fine_." She stomped on again without waiting for a response.

Thranduil made the extreme tactical mistake of grabbing her shoulder, and she nearly, oh so _very_ nearly punched him for it. Lorna was not going to be an abusive wife, but he was making that incredibly difficult.

"Thranduil," she said, her voice extremely strained, "you'd best move that hand, before I do something I'll regret later." _Don't hit him don't hit him don't hit him_. She loved this man – Elf. She did _not_ want to punch him. She was not going to be her da, no matter how provoked she was.

"Do you want to strike me, Lorna?" he asked, curiosity joining the anger in his tone.

She shrugged off his hand, turning to look at him. "If you were anyone else, I already would've," she said, trying valiantly to force her blood pressure down. "Twice. I don't want to be my da, Thranduil, but you're making that very had."

"What do you mean?" he asked, brow furrowing.

"I'll not be a spouse beater," she said. "I know I couldn't actually hurt you, but it's the principle'v the thing. But the more you provoke me, the harder that is, so _stop_."

He tilted his head to one side. "Hit me," he ordered.

"What? No!" she said, appalled. "Did you not hear anything I just told you? I'm not my da. I'm not going to _be_ my da. Once we've dealt with this, I'll tell you why."

"Why _not_?" he demanded.

"Because I don't punch people I love!" she snarled. "I've done some shite things in my life, but there're a few that're still beneath me."

Thranduil blinked, looking totally thrown. "You love me?" he asked softly.

" _Yes_ , you bloody idiot, though at the moment I'm wondering _why_ ," Lorna growled. "Now are we going to deal with this, or not? Because if you won't, I will."

She stalked off again, hands clenched so tight that even her blunt nails dug into her palms. _I am not Da_ , she told herself. _I am not Da._ She _wasn't_ her da, and she wasn't going to be, no matter how much Thranduil pissed her off.

* * *

Thranduil was rather stunned, so much so that he at first couldn't follow Lorna. That was perhaps the oddest confession of love he had ever heard of, but there was no mistaking the honesty in it. Only Lorna would display it by refusing to pummel him.

Eventually he did follow, struggling to process that. In truth, he hadn't been sure she ever would truly love him, not as he loved her – and he'd only had to push her almost to the point of violence to admit that she did.

Such a strange, _strange_ woman he had married.

Wisely, he said nothing more, letting her work out her ire in her own way. She truly _did_ want to strike him, and he didn't want to push her any more than he already had. The Edain of Eire had always been fabled for their tempers, and she was trying so hard to subsume hers that he didn't want to make it more difficult.

"We must gather our cloaks," he said at last. "Otherwise our search will be rather uncomfortable."

Her expression softened a bit. "That it will. Have you got any manner'v coat closet, so we don't have to go all the way back to the room?"

"As a matter of fact, I do," he said, "though nothing in it will remotely fit you. I am afraid you will be rather swamped by it."

"I can live with that."

The 'closet' was actually a small room, that had once held supplies for the Guard. One of his numerous, heavy grey velvet cloaks hung on a hook, alongside another of dark green. Lorna was indeed almost lost in it, but it would keep her warm. Hopefully the frigid air would help cool her temper.

When he opened the door, they found that the sun was finally shining, though the air remained bitterly cold. It dappled the snow with patches of gold where it pierced the bare branches, glittering like diamonds. A glance at the sky told him it was likely only a brief reprieve, however; more clouds loomed in the north.

The snow had piled up considerably since they were last out here; there had to be a good two feet now. It would pose him no problem, but Lorna would find it slow going. Thranduil was not, however, mad enough to suggest she let him carry her; he'd wait until she'd worn herself out trudging first.

"Bloody hell, this is gorgeous," she said. The sun lit up the few strands of silver in her hair, the cold pinking her cheeks. "I never thought I'd see snow like this, let alone in a forest."

"You may never again," he said. "At least, not in _this_ forest. This is, I hope, a singular event." It was just as well they could have no more children, if this was to be the result. "If you walk nearer the creek, it might be easier going – just don't slip."

"I'll do my best," she said. "Are we headed north, then?"

"We are, but we are in no hurry. If we do not find them, they will find us." He shortened and slowed his stride as best he could, so that she need not flail after him.

Lorna loved him. That knowledge would hopefully keep him from murdering any of his unwanted visitors.

* * *

Miranda hated snow.

It probably had a lot to do with growing up in Australia, where the stuff was practically unheard-of in most places. Oh, it was pretty, but it was a bitch to walk in, especially when it was this deep. Poor Julifer was having an even worse time than she was, cussing all the while.

So far as Miranda knew, no Gifted had entered Lord Thranduil's forest since before the Obliteration – she couldn't say no _human_ had, though, because the village had been totally, creepily empty, and she could think of nowhere else they could have gone but here.

That did not gel with what they knew of Lord Thranduil. He was a reclusive bastard – and after what he'd been through, she couldn't blame him. What the hell could have induced him to invite the whole damn village home with him? She didn't know, and that worried her. Maybe he'd gone crazy.

"What's he like?" Julifer asked, huffing and puffing as she stomped her way through the snow. She was wrapped up in a big, purple overcoat that looked like it had been made of shag carpeting, and looked every bit as annoyed as Miranda felt.

"From all the records, he's a complete bastard," she said, "but those all come from the Obliteration, when he'd just lost most of his people. _Anyone_ would be a bastard. What he's turned into since then, I have no idea." She really hoped the fact that he'd (presumably) taken in the village meant he wasn't a _total_ dick, because she didn't fancy the idea of dealing with an immortal asshole. She also hoped they weren't going to have to hunt the length and breadth of the forest to find him.

As luck had – or didn't have – it, _he_ found _them._

The records didn't say anything about what he looked like, but there was no way this man could be anyone else. He had to actually be a little taller than her, and she stood a full six-four, wrapped up in a cloak of silvery-grey velvet. Near as pale as the snow, his hair so blond it was almost white, but it was the eyes that really gave him away – too old and piercing to be a human's, full of so much memory it was hard to look at them. This was a man who had looked into hell, and it had looked back.

Weirdly, he had a woman with him, and _she_ was very much human, a tiny slip of a creature with a mass of black hair that made her look a bit like Cousin It with a face. Her complexion was more like Julifer's, though it was red from exertion, or cold, or both.

"It has been a very long time since any of your kind have entered my forest," Lord Thranduil said, his voice deeper than Miranda would have thought, "but your arrival is not unexpected. Yes, I am afraid this storm is my fault. At least, I can find nothing else to blame it on."

"What did you _do_?" Miranda asked bluntly.

He looked down at the little woman beside him. "I sired children," he said. "This started the day after their birth."

Well. Miranda hadn't known what to expect, but it sure as hell wasn't _that_.

"You may as well come with us," he added. "It is too cold for you to have this discussion out here."

"We'll have early lunch," the woman said. "But if you touch my children, I'll rip your arm off and shove it up your arse."

Somehow, tiny though she was, Miranda believed her.

* * *

Lorna's anger was muted quite a bit, simply by the sheer ludicrousness of their visitors. She hadn't been expecting an Australian Amazon and a woman who looked like she'd skinned Barney to make herself coat. They couldn't have been more of a contrast if they'd tried – and they both seemed to be having almost as much trouble with the snow as she was.

"Where the hell are they from?" she asked quietly, grabbing Thranduil's arm to steady herself.

"I know not what they call themselves now," he said. "The remnants of the Gifted watch over the world, however few they are in number. This would have been a beacon to them. They will question us, glower at us, and return home with tales of my halls. I admit, after all this time, I am surprised they remember I exist. I thought I would be a mere footnote by now."

Behind them, the Australian woman snorted. "The last of the Eldar, a footnote? It's true not _many_ know of you, but you're hardly forgotten. You did us too much good for us to actually forget you."

"In the Obliteration?" Lorna asked.

"He _told_ you about that?" the other woman asked. She didn't sound quite like the first – New Zealand, maybe?

"Well, I _did_ marry him, even though I didn't know that was what I was doing at first," Lorna said, elbowing him in the ribs. "I know he's not told me everything yet, but he's told me some. He told all'v us about the Obliteration, actually."

"Lord Thranduil, do you _really_ have the entire village of Lasgaelen in your home?" the Australian asked.

Though she couldn't see him, Thranduil smirked. "It is not as though they take up much space. I imagine I could fit most of your kind in here, too. Tell me, what do you know of my home?"

"Nothing," the other woman said. "As far as we know, you never let any of us in it."

"No," he sighed, smirk fading, "I did not. And I should have."

"From what little record we have, you lost most of your people, too," the Australian said. "And our records really are alarmingly few. We need to know what you know, Lord Thranduil. Sharley says you've fucked up more things than you realize."

"Who the hell his Sharley?" Lorna asked, immediately defensive.

"Sharley's…Sharley. She's not a precog, but she knows things, and occasionally stops by to let us know. According to her, Lord Thranduil's thrown the future off-course, though of course she wouldn't tell us _how_. Just that things were coming, and now they've not coming right."

Lorna just barely resisted the urge to say, _That's what she said._ She felt rather proud that she'd managed it.

"Did you have any idea this would happen?" Purple Coat asked.

"No," Thranduil said, a little irritably, "I did not. And I do not see how I could have been expected to. It is not as though this was ever a regular occurrence at the birth of Eldar children."

"Either way, you've released an epic amount of magic," Purple Coat said. "The Trees are working overtime – and there are other people who are going to notice. You might get visitors you don't want. Visitors like us, just…nasty."

Thranduil halted, turning to face them. "Are you going to be terribly cross with me if I kill them?"

" _Thranduil_ ," Lorna said.

"Lorna, you do not understand how dangerous the more powerful Gifted can be. While they pose no threat to _me_ , your village almost literally sits on my doorstep. _You_ could all be in very great danger."

Amazon sighed. "If you do, I'm gonna have to pretend to be pissed, for form's sake, but no. We don't kill our own people, but that doesn't mean there aren't a few I wouldn't mind seeing dead."

"D'you kill _my_ people?" Lorna asked.

"Some do," Amazon said. "Those would be the ones I wouldn't mind seeing dead. Lord Thranduil, if any of us come sniffing around here with an intent to do harm, you have my full blessing to kill them – just don't tell anyone I said that."

"How many of you even are there?" Lorna asked.

"A few hundred thousand, all told. Ever since the Obliteration, we've had a hard time having kids, and most of the ones we _do_ have are normal people like you. Sometimes they stay with us, but mostly they move out into the outside world." She looked at Thranduil. "Sharley said your little snowstorm might shift that, though of course she didn't say why, or how. Don't have any more kids."

"Wasn't planning on it," Lorna muttered. "Going through that once was more than enough."

"Good. You're so tiny I'm surprised you managed to get through it even once," Amazon said.

Lorna wanted to be pissed, but she had a point. A very good point.

* * *

Julifer wasn't going to lie – the height difference between Lord Thranduil and his wife was so great that she wondered how conceiving their children had even _worked._ Especially if certain things were corresponding in size.

Yeah, she was just a bit of a pervert.

She was also, at the moment, freezing, in spite of their trek. The isolated bit of New Zealand she'd grown up in just didn't get this cold, ever; snow was a rarity, and it never reached this level. She'd thought her bulky coat would be enough, but nope. Even with her gloves, her fingers were going numb, the frigid air stinging her face. It was beautiful, but she'd rather be viewing it through a window, with a nice hot mug of cocoa and Bailey's. She really hoped Lord Thranduil's house, wherever it was, had decent heating.

She really didn't know what to make of him. Julifer hadn't realized anything not human had survived the Obliteration, but according to Miranda, he was the only known person to have a natural immunity to the plague. And nobody, including him, knew why.

She also said he probably had no idea how much protection they'd given him over the centuries. There was a reason Lasgaelen had never turned into a city, and it wasn't wholly his influence. A lot of the Gifteds' normal descendants had worked actively – if quietly – to keep newcomers away. People from the outside sometimes married in, but enough children left when they grew up that the population mostly stayed balanced. He likely had no clue, which was just how they liked it.

He lived in his forest, cut off from a world that had passed him by – until now. What had caused him to change so drastically? Why, after all this time, had he gone and married a human? Had he lost his mind? He seemed lucid enough, but Julifer didn't know a damn thing about Eldar, aside from the fact that they were immortal. And that he was the last one.

She was almost pathetically grateful when they reached a massive wooden door – a door that led underground. She followed him through it with no small amount of trepidation, and her eyes widened.

"Holy _shit_."

* * *

Truth be told, Thranduil quite enjoyed watching the reactions of newcomers to his home. He had lived here for so long that it held no sense of wonder for him, but it clearly did for every single Edain that set foot in it. It pleased him more than it likely should have.

"If you will follow me," he said. "Whatever you must say might as well be said in front of the village, and save me the trouble of explaining later."

"We don't usually talk about this stuff in front of normals," the tall blonde woman said.

He turned to her, arching an eyebrow. "These people might not be Gifted, but trust me, they are far from normal."

Lorna snorted, choking on a laugh. "You've got that right," she muttered, shrugging out of her cloak.

They moved through the glow of lanterns and the sunlight of a bygone age, and he watched them both from the corner of his eye. The blonde woman was very obviously a warrior – everything in her bearing told him she had actually seen combat, of some manner or another.

The other woman, the one with the hideous coat, was most definitely not a warrior, but she had to be some kind of aide. While her accent was mostly foreign to him, there was something in it that was almost familiar, and he suspected she must have grown up near an abandoned Eldar settlement.

What their Gifts were, he could not tell. He never had been able to. Not that it mattered a great deal right now.

He wondered if they knew about Bridie.

While the dining hall as a whole wasn't overly warm, a large brazier had been set up beside the most-used table. Shannon, Lorna found, had taken over twin-duty, tickling them with a long feather she'd found God knew where. Her green cast was by now mostly black, having been scribbled all over with Sharpie – signatures and sticky figures, mostly, and what looked like a game of noughts and crosses.

"All right, you lot, we've got visitors," Lorna said. "And no, they're not the bad sort. They already know what's going on."

That didn't stop nearly every pair of eyes in the room narrowing. They really _were_ protective of their resident Elf.

"She speaks truth," Thranduil said. "These are two of the descendants of the Gifted who survived the Obliteration."

Unsurprisingly, that sent a murmur of curiosity through the crowd. "What do they want?" Old Orla demanded. She was sitting not at the table, but on it, with her knitting bag beside her and a deep green scarf long enough for the Fourth Doctor on her lap.

"They think Thranduil and I fucked something up when we had kids," Lorna said, hopping up beside her. She wasn't about to admit it to anyone, but all that walking had left her abdomen rather sore. Doc Barry was going to chew her out later.

The smaller woman looked rather nonplussed, but the tall one didn't look like _anything_ could throw her. Her age was hard to guess, but she had to be older than she looked, if she had any kind of authority among her people. Her eyes were the most hectic, alarming blue Lorna had ever seen, and her skin was almost as pale as Thranduil's.

"My name is Miranda Black," she said. "I'm head of the Department of Magical Affairs."

"Whose department?" Big Jamie asked. "What government?"

" _Every_ government, even if most of them don't know it. This storm's caused by magic that got kicked off by the birth of those kids, and we're worried about what else it might be – Julifer, get back here."

The woman in the purple coat had drifted over to the bassinet, and her expression had promptly melted. "Miranda, these are the cutest damn babies I have ever seen."

"I'm sure they are, but drool later."

"Oh, fine." Julifer scowled, but returned to Miranda's side.

"What do you mean, 'what else'?" Mick asked. Christ, it wasn't even close to noon and he already had an empty lager can beside him.

"We don't know," Miranda said, and didn't sound at all happy about the admission. "We're going to have to send some people here to check up on things occasionally, but I'll give you their ID's, so you know who they are. Bridie can deal with them, if she's still alive."

Lorna froze. "Bridie?" she repeated. "What's my gran got to do with this?"

The pair exchanged a glance. "If you're her granddaughter, I'm surprised she didn't tell you," Miranda said. "She's one of us."

* * *

Since the sun was out, the Americans had trekked back to the village to get the rest of their things. As much as Bridie didn't want to do it, she was officially out of firewood – they had to go to Lord Thranduil's.

She packed her own luggage, which was simple enough: spare clothes,, and all her pills. She also carefully put the wedding dress back into its plastic garment bag, figuring it could finish airing out in a larger space. If Lorna saw it, perhaps she'd be inclined to wear it sooner. She was human, damn it all, and she'd be married in the human way, or Bridie would know why not.

She was shrugging into her coat when she saw two _new_ strangers go by, trudging through the sparkling snow: two women, one the size of a giant and the other wearing the most hideous coat Bridie had ever seen. How in god's name had they got out here, and _why_? Lasgaelen was the arse-end of nowhere, and there was so much snow on the ground they must have come driving a plow. If they were eejits like Bryan and Jennifer, they were damn dedicated eejits.

Well. If nothing else, this ought to get interesting.

She had plenty of time to wait and kick her heels until the Americans returned, so she tidied up the cottage. She had no worry at all that she'd be able to find Lord Thranduil's home in all that forest, because she'd always been able to find things. Anything. No matter what it was, or where.

She'd been told more than once that it was a gift. People always wondered why she laughed.

Two people had come to her, nearly sixty years go – two people like her. Oh, they didn't have the _same_ ability, but each had one. They'd given her a card with a phone number, and asked her to notify them of any emergencies or major changes in the area. They were, they said, as interested in keeping Lord Thranduil a secret as the village was.

She still had the card, though she'd only had to use it twice. She wouldn't be terribly surprised if this new pair were from that group as well, simply because she had no idea why anyone else would go to the trouble of getting here through all this snow. They _could_ simply be another duo of nutters like Jennifer and Bryan, but Bridie doubted it.

She wrapped her scarf around her neck and put on her gloves, checking to make sure her braid was securely pinned in place. The mercury in her thermometer was at the bottom of the bulb, and she wondered us how much longer this cold could last.

The Americans came flailing through the snow, each dressed in probably half the clothes they had brought, bearing an assortment of bags. Jesus, how much had they traveled with? She hoped they wouldn't mind lugging it a few more miles, since she couldn't exactly help them.

She plunged out into the snow herself, ancient suitcase firmly in hand, and locked the door behind her out of sheer habit.

"Did you bring everything you own on this trip?" she asked, eying them.

Bryan laughed. "It looks like more than it is. Ma'am, I'll take that," he said, holding out his gloved hand for her suitcase.

Whoever said Americans were rude had obviously never met these two. They might be a pair of fools, but no one could say they weren't polite.

"Thank you, young man," she said, handing it over. "We've a long walk ahead. I've done up some sandwiches for when we take a rest. Remember, you two – no pictures. And Jennifer, you'd best have that stone handy, to put it back."

"I do," the girl said, patting the pocket of her green coat. "This – even if we can never tell anyone, this will be amazing."

"It might be even more interesting than you think," Bridie muttered.

She looked toward the village, and shut her eyes in silent pain – yet another figure was flailing through the snow.

"Oh, for Christ's _sake_ ," she groaned.

"Mrs. Monaghan?" it called. "Is that you?"

Well, at least this one had to be a former local, even if she didn't recognize him right off – a tall man, middle fifties, swathed in a brown coat that made him look like nothing so much as a bear.

"'Tis," she said. "Who's asking?"

"Andrew Corcoran," he said. He was huffing and puffing like anything, his face alarmingly red. "I came to warn you there's someone else that knows'v Lord Thranduil, and he'll be on his way by now, I'm sure."

Bridie groaned. "He'll have to join the queue," she said. "Lord Thranduil's going to bloody _love_ this. You might as well come along with us. He's got the whole village with him already."

Andrew blinked. "He _does_?"

"It's a long story," she said blandly. "You may as well come along. At this rate we'll have half the bloody county with us before long."

* * *

Colin was amazed he'd reached Lasgaelen in one piece.

He'd purchased something called tire chains, which he'd never actually heard of before, and practiced putting them on. Even with them, though he'd nearly wrecked four times before he reached the village.

And found a ghost town.

Not a single business was open, and he got no response at all when he shouted. Nobody answered at any of the houses he knocked on, either. It was as if every single person had disappeared into thin air.

In spite of the bright sun, he shivered, and not from cold. Unbidden, images of zombies and serial killers entered his mind, and he wished he had anything remotely resembling a weapon.

There _were_ foot prints, though – or rather, foot trails, since walking in over four feet of snow was beyond a bitch. He followed them, for lack of anything better to do, squinting against the bright glare of the sunlight glittering off the snow. The tracks, he found, headed straight into the forest, and at first he hesitated to follow them – but if others had been willing to go in before him, it couldn't be _that_ dangerous.

He drew a deep breath, the glacial air burning in his lungs, and stepped into the trees.

* * *

Poor Thranduil. Poor, poor Thranduil. His days of being a recluse are pretty much over.

Title means "Visitors" in Irish. As always, reviews give me hope and sparkles.

Guest: Thranduil is indeed talking about Thorvald.


	12. Ceann Cluichí

In which poor Colin is dealt with, Miranda is contemplative, and Lorna and Thranduil have a much-needed conversation.

* * *

Lorna insisted Miranda and Julifer stay for lunch, though it turned out they knew no more about her gran – just that Gran was one of them.

 _Mairead_ wasn't best pleased by that. She downed a full pint of Guinness in five minutes, scowling all the while. "Why wouldn't she tell us?" she demanded. "She bloody raised me!"

"Most of us keep our Gifts a secret," Julifer said. "It prevents…misunderstandings. Could you have kept it a secret, if you'd known about it as a kid?"

That took a bit of the wind out of Mairead's ire. "Well, no, but in this village it wouldn't've mattered. We all grew up knowing there was an Elf next door – magic isn't so hard a concept to swallow here."

"I believe you will get the chance to ask her yourself, Mistress Mairead," Thranduil said. He was cradling little Shane, who he carefully laid back in the bassinet. "There are five more people in my forest, and I would be very surprised if one of them is not her. Did the pair of you come alone, Mistress Miranda, or should I be expecting yet more company like you?" he added, a little waspishly.

Miranda and Julifer exchanged a glance. "It's just us," Miranda said. "Anybody else isn't _our_ fault."

"If the Americans were here when the snow hit, they might be with Gran," Lorna said. "I've got no idea about the other two – unless somebody at the hospital got curious, and was mad enough to try to come out here." Her obstetrician had certainly seemed too curious for his own good.

The shift in Thranduil's expression was, quite honestly, a little terrifying. Never, ever had she seen him look so very cold, so, well, _inhuman_. The grace with which he stood was inhuman, too, and she wasn't the only one who eyed him warily.

"Thranduil," she said – half question, half warning. "You can just tweak his mind, right? You don't have to do anything…worse." That was half-question, too; she still only had a vague idea of just what powers he truly had.

"I can," he affirmed, his tone as frigid as his eyes. "I think this time I must ask you to come with me, Dilthen Ettelëa."

"Why?" she asked, even as she hopped off the table.

"To make certain I do not do, as you say, something worse."

Lorna cast a glance at Mairead before following him – her sister looked as disturbed as she felt. "Thranduil, what've you got in mind?" she asked, hurrying to match his long stride. He might as well have been carved of stone, for all the animation in his face, but his eyes were the worst. She'd never seen such glacial chill, not in anyone.

"Your grandmother is welcome," he said. "Even those two Americans I will tolerate, for they are little more than children, and harmless enough, even if they _are_ complete fools. The others – I will not allow anyone from the outside world to know of this place, Lorna. No, I will not kill them, but nor does that mean I will let them _leave_."

Well, it was better than straight-up murdering them, but not by a hell of a lot. "You're just going to lock them up in here somewhere?" she asked, before grabbing his sleeve and tugging on it. "You've got to slow down a bit, allanah – I'm taking three steps for your every one." Already she was halfway out of breath, for all she'd not had a cigarette in six months.

Slow he did, and the harshness of his profile softened a fraction. It was only a fraction, however. "I might," he said. "I have dungeons, though they have not been used in millennia. You do understand how dangerous it would be, for word of our home to spread among the outside world?"

"Oh, I know," she sighed. "And if it's that doctor'v mine, I'd love to wring his neck, but that doesn't mean I can actually _do_ it. It's the modern world, Thranduil. You can't just lock him up and throw away the key – somebody'll file a Missing Person's report sooner or later, even if he hasn't got any close family. That would raise questions we really don't want raised. Just…scramble his mind a bit, and send him on his way. It's what you've always done, isn't it?"

"It is," he said, pausing to look at her, "but until now, the consequences of failure were never dire. Before you, it had been centuries since anyone not from this village had wandered into my forest. That foolish couple, and now these other interlopers – they are strangers, Lorna. And we have children to protect."

Lorna rubbed her forehead. She already had a headache coming on. "I know," she said. "If it _is_ my doctor, just wonk his memory about. I mean, he _did_ deliver the twins safely. We do kind'v owe him." She didn't know a great deal about C-sections, but she was pretty sure that, with babies that premature, a whole load of things could have gone disastrously wrong. Yes, his curiosity now was a gigantic pain in the arse, but he'd made certain they had two healthy (if tiny) children to run away with. They couldn't go discounting that.

Now it was Thranduil who sighed. "I wish you did not have a point."

"Yeah, well, me too," she said. "This fifth person – let's just do the same, shall we? If he's brought a friend, they'll both get a mental whammy and then they can toddle off home."

His expression still made her nervous. It didn't take a mind reader to see that part of Thranduil wanted to kill them ad have done with it, but she trusted him not to act on it. He'd never given her any indication he lacked self-control, so she was going to _keep_ trusting him. He was, after all, six thousand years old.

"Very well," he said. "Let's get this over with."

* * *

Bridie wasn't surprised the other three were jumpy as all hell, but strangely, she wasn't. Perhaps it was because she'd lived all her life within sight of the forest; the outside of it was so familiar that the interior held no fears.

Andy Corcoran clearly didn't share the sentiment. It was no wonder she hadn't recognized him – she'd not seen him since he was eighteen, just before he left for Trinity.

"You'll give yourself a heart attack," she said. "Will you not relax? Everybody else is in here. It's not like we're trespassing."

" _We_ are," Jennifer said nervously.

"You're with me," Bridie said, waving a dismissive hand. "It's that Colin that'll be in trouble, if he shows his face. If he turns up, he'll be leaving with a brain like a scrambled egg."

"He has, I think, turned up."

Even Bridie twitched, and Jennifer let out a short, aborted shriek, staggering in the snow. Lord Thranduil had appeared from behind a tree, with Lorna seated on his shoulders like a child.

"He is somewhere behind you," he added. "You two I know –" he pointed at Bryan and Jennifer "—but who is _he_?"

"That's Andy Corcoran," Bridie said, saving the poor man having to answer. "He's a local. He came back to warn you about this other eejit."

"I don't know how he even got here," Andy said, a little faintly. "I had to hitch a ride on a snowplow, and walk the rest of the way."

"He's not just an eejit, he's a nutter," Lorna muttered.

"Apparently," Lord Thranduil sighed. "Follow the tracks, Mistress Bridie. You'll find my front door easily enough."

"Yeah, but can she open it?" Lorna asked.

"No, but this will not take long."

Bridie decided to pretend there wasn't anything sinister in that sentence.

* * *

In spite of the creepy, empty village – in spite of his aching legs and burning lungs – Colin was glad he'd come.

He'd been on hikes in national parks, but they had nothing on this place – these huge trees were beyond ancient, like towers in a fairytale. He'd been snapping away with his digital camera almost as soon as he'd set foot among them, his fingers so numb he almost couldn't feel the buttons.

This wasn't fairyland as he'd ever heard of it in folklore. It was old and deep, and powerful in a way he could put no name to. The only delicate things to be seen were the shadows of the bare branches on the snow, veining the sparkling white.

It was completely silent, but that wasn't terribly surprising; snow did tend to muffle just about everything. The air was breathless and still – far too still for anywhere in Ireland, really. Unnatural. Then again, perhaps nothing counted as 'unnatural' in the forest of an Elf. He really ought to have brought someone with him, to share the experience, but at the same time, he was glad he hadn't.

That thought lasted until he found his quarry. Or rather, until it found him.

Looking at the man – or whatever he was – Colin wondered how he _ever_ could have mistaken him for human. Swathed in grey velvet, his silvery hair free, his piercing, arctic eyes locked on Colin with an inhuman intensity. Inhuman, and _hostile_.

Colin might just have pissed himself if Donovan hadn't appeared at her boyfriend's side, giving his cloak a tug. Their height difference really was ludicrous, but at least her presence seemed to diffuse a little – a very little – of his palpable ire.

"You've gone and stepped in it now," she said to Colin. "You just couldn't leave well enough alone, could you?"

He opened his mouth to respond, but his voice was nowhere to be found. And really, what _could_ he say? She was right; he couldn't stay away.

"The question, doctor," her boyfriend said, with a certain arrogant tilt of his head, "is what am I to do with you now? I cannot let you leave, even with the very little you know."

Colin's heart plummeted into his stomach, stark terror flooding his veins. Some dim part of him knew he ought to run, but he wouldn't get far – not when faced with an opponent who was somehow standing on _top_ of the snow.

"He'll not kill you," Donovan said, with something approximating gentleness, "even if you _are_ a bloody eejit. You've got to come with us, though, and it's in your best interest to do it voluntarily. I can't promise he won't break something if you don't."

Her boyfriend gave her a very dry look, but worryingly, he didn't protest.

Colin swallowed hard, stepping toward them, and nearly jumped out of his skin when the man/whatever-he-was snatched his camera out of his hand and _crushed_ it. Actually, legitimately crushed it, dropping the plastic shards onto the snow. Sweet bloody Jesus, how strong _was_ he? He could probably snap Colin's neck with one hand.

"Show-off," Donovan muttered.

"It was necessary," he retorted.

"I'm sure it was, Thranduil," she said dryly. "I'm sure it was."

"What – um, what are you going to do with me?" Colin stammered.

"I do not yet know," Thranduil said, grabbing Colin's shoulder and shoving him ahead of them. "As Lorna reminded me, we do have you to thank for the twins' safe entrance into the world, so I will not harm you Despite the fact that you wanted to turn my children into – what did you call it, Lorna? Lab rats?"

"Got it in one. For your sake, Doctor, I hope you've not told anyone else about that," she added sternly.

Colin swallowed. "Just Doctor Corcoran," he said. "He grew up here. He told me to burn the paperwork, and I did." It had been an agonizing decision, but he'd done it.

"At least you're not _completely_ daft," Donovan said.

Colin was too out-of-breath to respond. He'd fancied himself in decent shape, but he had to have gone well over a mile in three feet of snow already. At this rate, he'd happily drop dead, and save this Thranduil the effort.

Mercifully, it wasn't much longer before they caught up with the other group, who were actually sitting in the snow eating sandwiches in front of the a very large door.

"All right, you lot," Donovan said, as Thranduil opened it. "In you go."

* * *

Though Miranda hadn't been given permission to wander Lord Thranduil's halls, she wandered anyway, assessing.

Normally she was almost entirely indifferent to aesthetics, but even she had to admit the place was beautiful. More importantly, however, it was practically a perfect stronghold.

Once upon a time, there had been millions of Eldar, with settlements all over the world. So far as she knew, nobody had ever explored the remnants, but if any of them were like _this_ , they might prove damn useful.

The DMA inhabited a pocket dimension, discovered by the Gifted so long ago that nobody actually knew just how long they'd been living there. Having bases on Earth could only be a good thing, even if they would hopefully never _need_ them.

It wasn't something she would ask Lord Thranduil about just yet, because he might get offended by the mere idea. She'd see if they could find one on their own first, and see if it could be salvaged after a few thousand years of neglect. Because if Sharley was right – and she usually was – they _were_ going to need it. It, and everything else they could get their hands on.

She wished more of the Eldar had stayed. Yeah, all the records had said most of them had some level of superiority complex, but when you literally lived forever, it would be hard not to. Their magic wasn't like that of the Gifted, but it seemed to have been no less useful.

At least there was Lord Thranduil – though honestly, he seemed a touch weird, presumably even for an Elf. The way he moved was a little…off, and not just because it was too smooth to be human. His expressions, when he watched people – there was a peculiar curiosity there, like an anthropologist studying a foreign culture, which Miranda supposed he sort of was. If he'd really been shut away from the world for a thousand years, it had probably come as a massive shock.

And then there were his eyes. The fact that he rarely blinked might not be _that_ weird, since he wasn't human, but they were always open so wide that she wondered if he had vision problems. Rajit, one of the DMA's electropaths, was partially blind in one eye, and he did pretty much the same thing. It wasn't exactly something she could _ask_ about, but she wondered anyway.

Once she and Julifer went home, she'd send some teams out to see if they could locate any abandoned Eldar strongholds. It was worth a shot.

* * *

As much as Thranduil wanted to throw this exasperating man in the dungeon, he thought it might be far more entertaining to leave him to the not-so-tender mercies of the villagers. The other foreigners had come with Bridie, and thus would receive a measure of protection, but the healer was not so fortunate. Thranduil suspected the Americans were only still here because the weather had trapped them, but the healer had to have actively fought his way through the snow.

He seemed to terrified to be properly in awe of his surroundings, but the Americans weren't. It was difficult to be as annoyed with them when they were so clearly amazed, almost childlike in their sheer delight. Not impossible, for they really _were_ aggravating, but slightly more difficult.

Even Bridie looked impressed, try though she did not to show it. Her blue eyes darted here and there, taking in everything, but she said nothing.

"Oh, go on and gawk, Gran," Lorna said. "The rest'v us did. It'll not kill you."

"Whisht, you. I'll gawk once I've seen your sprogs, and can put my feet up."

Lorna snorted. "Gran, you're impossible to impress," she said. "You really are."

"It's not _impossible_ ," Bridie retorted, with no small amount of asperity. "It's just bloody difficult. I've brought your wedding dress, for whenever you'll be needing it."

Lorna's eyes narrowed, her jaw clenching, but she said nothing, and Thranduil thought he could guess why. Even if she loved him, she wasn't about to be railroaded into marriage by anyone. Especially since she'd still so recently lost her first husband. They had gone about things rather backward, but she wasn't going to marry him just because they had children – nor did he want her to. If she ever came to regret it, he did not know what he would do. She had to be sure.

And he was in no hurry. Thranduil was hardly desperate for carnal affection; Lorna could take as long as she liked. He had her, and he had the twins. And the village. And, at the moment, three people who did _not_ belong here.

Fortunately, they were not solely his problem.

* * *

Colin had thought Thranduil was terrifying, but this village was certainly giving him a run for his money.

He'd been brought to some kind of dining hall, a vast room of dark stone carved to look like a grove of trees. In here, the walls looked like they were inlaid with quartz, or some other shiny rock, glittering in the lantern-light. It held around two hundred people, all human – and every single one of them gave him a raging stink-eye as soon as Donovan told them who he was.

It wasn't fair. The Americans were getting a bit of it, too, but not half so much as him. They hovered near the little old lady, who seemed to be almost like some kind of shield.

"I did try to warn you," Doctor Corcoran said, sitting at the one long table that was actually occupied, and dragging Colin to sit with him. "Why in God's name could you not leave it alone?"

"A very good question," Thranduil drawled. "Please, enlighten us."

Colin swallowed. "I just…I had to know," he said, his voice surprisingly small as he rubbed at the hem of his shirt. "I wanted to know if there was really something – something _more_." He hadn't been a particularly imaginative child, nor was he an imaginative adult; the idea that anything supernatural could be _real_ was not one he had ever entertained.

"You wanted to run tests on my children," Thranduil said flatly, his tone as glacial as his eyes. "And what, precisely, would you have done with the results?"

Honestly, Colin hadn't thought that far ahead, because he hadn't been totally convinced there wasn't some rational explanation. "I don't know," he admitted.

"We've got people who can fuck with his memory, if you like." The offer came from a massively tall Australian woman, who was looking at him with even deeper disapproval than the others. Who the hell was _she_?

Thranduil smirked. "I can take care of that myself, Mistress Miranda, though I thank you."

Colin felt suddenly lightheaded.

* * *

As annoyed as Lorna was at the obstetrician, she couldn't help but feel a little sorry for him. She had to remind herself that, even with innocent intentions, he could have got her, Thranduil, and the twins in a hell of a lot of trouble. He obviously hadn't paused to consider the potential consequences of coming out here, and she doubted he would have hesitated to poke other doctors until someone took him seriously. No, she didn't think he meant any harm, but that didn't mean he couldn't have caused it. Maybe a lot of it.

"We'll not drive you _mad_ or anything," she said, grabbing a can of lager from the end of the table and moving to press it into his hand. Seated, he was actually a little shorter than her, his dark eyes wide in his pale face. "You did make sure our kids survived being born. But you can't be allowed to remember any'v this."

"Will it hurt?" he asked.

"No," she said, and hoped she was telling the truth. She doubted Elf-magic was anything actually malicious, so she probably was. "Thranduil's not a monster, Doctor, but he _is_ a da, and you're a threat to his kids, whether you mean to be or not."

"What about you?" he asked, his hands trembling as he popped the tab on the can.

Lorna snorted. " _I'd_ happily knock your teeth out for being a bloody eejit," she said. "You're not like the Americans – you were warned not to come here, and you came anyway. But we do owe you, so I won't. But next time someone warns you not to do something, _listen_."

Granted, she was a bloody hypocrite there. When she was young and stupid, as soon as someone had told her not to do something, she'd gone and done it. The difference was that she had been a stoned teenager, not a thirtysomething doctor who really ought to have known better.

She wondered how Thranduil's magical mind-wipe worked. She probably ought to sit with this poor bastard when he did it, for reassurance if nothing else.

* * *

Thranduil let the healer metaphorically twist in the wind until evening, mostly because he dare not attempt this while angry. Even now, he lacked Galadriel's mental ability, and it would be all too easy to drive the man irreparably mad. _Thranduil_ wouldn't mind that at all, but Lorna would. If he'd ever been as comparatively softhearted as her, he had long since forgotten it. A king, especially one in a world the way this one had been for so long, could not afford sentimentality.

And what a kingdom he had had, before the Edain migrated this way in any appreciable number. He did not often let himself think on it, for to do so would also force him to face just how much it – and he – had diminished. He was an artifact, a relic of a world long gone, lingering on the fringes. A king, yes, but a king of nothing.

Even now, his two hundred Edain were a far cry from the people he had once ruled. The truly glory of the Woodland Realm and its people was lost forever, vanished along with the bulk of Earth's magic. In a way, he and the Gifted were akin to one another: they too were remnants. Yes, they still had a small society, but it was only a matter of time before they too died out.

If Thorvald ever managed to escape his prison, it would not take much time at all.

* * *

This poor doctor was so obviously absolutely bloody terrified, and Lorna really didn't know what to do. He was pale and sweaty and shivering – if he'd been older, she'd have feared for his heart.

He sat now in one of the pair of armchairs in Thranduil's room, beside the bright warmth of the fire. She couldn't at all blame him, but she was at a loss as to how to comfort him. Thranduil really did look exceptionally forbidding right now, his face expressionless as a marble statue. His black tunic didn't help, since it contrasted so severely with his pale skin and icy eyes.

"He's not going to eat you," she told the doctor, and couldn't help but add, "though he's bloody good at it, when he's got a mind to be."

The innuendo obviously went right over the poor bastard's head at first, but she knew when it clicked, for he blushed like a brick. Sheer embarrassment seemed to drain a little of his tension. Well, if _that_ worked….

"Seriously, don't get me started on the things he can do with his tongue," she went on, fighting a smirk. A very Thranduil-type smirk; clearly, he was a bad influence on her. "They shouldn't be legal. And those fingers'v his…well. Making the twins was more fun than it probably ought to be."

God, now he'd gone the color of an over-ripe apple. Was he – wait, was he _attracted_ to Thranduil? She was pretty sure he was. That actually explained one _hell_ of a lot. And it did seem to be distracting him, while Thranduil got ready to do whatever it was he needed to do.

"I was walking funny for a few days, mind you. I'm a bit on the tiny side, and he's a bit, well, _not_. Makes for some residual soreness, if you get my meaning," she said, waggling her eyebrows.

The doctor finally burst out laughing, and she smiled. "And let me tell you, trying to take a piss when your snatch is that sore is no picnic," she added, barely able to keep a straight face herself.

"Lorna, you might just be the most vulgar creature I have ever met," Thranduil said dryly, sitting in the chair opposite the doctor.

"Vulgarity has its uses," she said, as primly as she could manage. "And you really did give me so much fodder."

"I could have given you so much more," he said, more dryly still. "Someday, I will."

Oh. Well. Lorna was pretty sure she was actually incapable of blushing, but certain parts of her suddenly felt rather warm.

"Hold still, Doctor," he ordered. "This will not hurt, but if you resist, it will be…unpleasant. For both of us."

"Because that's so very reassuring," Lorna said, giving the man's shoulder a squeeze.

"It is the truth," Thranduil said, reaching out to touch the doctor's face. "I mean it. Hold still."

It was only about thirty seconds before the poor bastard had no choice – he passed out, slumping in his chair. Lorna braced him in place before he could actually fall to the floor, her stomach lurching. Thranduil hadn't told her _that_ would happen, but he didn't seem worried – just intent.

She'd known he could do this, but actually _watching_ it was, well, a little terrifying. Just how much power could he have over a person's mind?

How much could he have over hers? How much had he _had_ over hers, the day they met?

He'd told her that his own desire had influenced her, but it had to be more than that. Lorna didn't sleep with people she'd just met, no matter how attractive she found them. She just didn't do it – she'd never wanted to. Even with Liam, she hadn't actually _wanted_ to sleep with him until she'd fallen in love with him, yet she'd happily shagged Thranduil not fifteen minutes after she'd spoken with him.

 _Why?_ And why had she not wondered about it more deeply until now?

She didn't know, and it unsettled her. It was something she had to ask him about, once she'd figured out how.

 _He laid her down, and did not ask her leave_ , she thought. When she and Liam had gone knocking about Britain, the bus had broken down in Selkirk just in time for a festival. The people had been surprisingly welcoming to their two Irish visitors, and the pair of them had eaten themselves sick, and listened to folk music under the stars. And only now did she realize that one of the ballads, _Tam Lin_ , eerily mirrored the last six months of her life.

Thranduil hadn't exactly asked her leave. She knew he would never have hurt her if she'd actually protested, but _something_ had been going on in her mind, something that was most definitely not her doing. And her simply mirroring his desire couldn't have been it, because it had been as if all her rationality and common sense had been taken completely offline. Not even booze or drugs had ever so thoroughly managed that.

The thought made her incredibly uncomfortable, and she was glad enough when Thranduil said he was finished. Since she couldn't physically help him move the doctor, she left him to it, wandering out into the halls.

She ought to go see to the twins, but she couldn't handle dealing with half the bloody village right now. As much as she didn't want to think about this, she rather had to, so she went for a walk, meandering aimlessly along one of the high walkways.

Thranduil had slept with her upon first meeting her, knowing that they would be married by the standards of his people. He'd apparently done a little stalking before then, but, not counting her song, they'd exchanged what, maybe a hundred words before he somehow charmed his way into her pants?

What, really, did he even _see_ in her? Lorna was fully aware there was nothing remarkable about her, unless he knew something she didn't – which he just might. If so, though, he'd never shared it with her.

She had to ask him. She didn't _want_ to, but she needed to know just what he'd done to her mind that day – and she needed to know why it had taken so long for her to properly wonder about it.

This, she knew, was not a conversation either of them would enjoy.

* * *

Miranda and Julifer left after dinner, taking the unconscious doctor with them, promising they would drop him off at his flat. Thranduil was quite glad to be rid of him, for he had other troubles to stew over.

Lorna's expression had gone very strange as she watched him work on the doctor's mind, and then she'd scurried off as soon as she could. Clearly she'd been disturbed, and he supposed he couldn't fault her for it, but he wished she would speak to him, not run. He somehow doubted she ran from much of anything.

There were only so many places she would be likely to go, and one in particular she'd told him was quite lovely. It was close to half a mile from the dining-hall, yet she still somehow beat him to it.

There were many waterfalls within the halls, but this one was exceptionally large, and stood beneath a fissure that let in shafts of silvery moonlight that glittered on the churning water. It fell into a wide, shallow pool before continuing on its way again, meandering through a stony channel in the floor. Huge sword ferns ringed the pool, and someone long ago had put an oak bench beside it.

Lorna sat on the bench now, cross-legged, staring into the pool. The vastness of his halls made her seem even tinier than she already was. She was picking at the end of her braid, her expression as troubled as he felt.

"You will lose yourself, if you wander too far," he said, approaching. "The women from the DMA took the doctor with them. They will see him safely home, and he will trouble us no more."

She looked up, but though she gave Thranduil a half-smile, that was all she gave.

"What is wrong, Lorna?" he asked, making his way to the bench.

She hesitated, as if searching for words. "Thranduil," she said at last, "the day we met, what did you _really_ do to my mind? Yes, you're very pretty, but I don't sleep with people I've just met. And why am I only now thinking about it, after all this time?"

Thranduil fought the urge to sigh. He should have seen this coming. "Lorna, I swear I did not consciously influence your mind," he said. "Yes, influence it I did, but I did not do to you what I did to Doctor O'Donnell. There was no active will behind it." He could not, however, claim he hadn't known what he was doing. The fact that his desire had been altering her mind had been impossible to miss. "Why you are only thinking of it now, I do not know."

 _That_ was perilously close to a bold-faced lie. No, he hadn't outright done anything to her mind, but he knew well how distracting he could be, when he wished. And he had wished.

She drew her feet up onto the bench, wrapping her arms around her legs and resting her chin on her knees – a defensive posture if ever he'd seen one. "Why did you _marry_ me?" she asked. "Tell me the truth, Thranduil. It can't just be that I gave you a gift. That's grounds for friendship, sure, but _marriage_? Yeah, you stalked me enough to know a little _about_ me, but you didn't _know_ me at all. For all you could've known, I might've been an axe murderer, and you just up and married me, at least in your mind. _Why?_ "

In truth, it was a question for which he did not fully have an answer – and she might not like the answer he _did_ have, for he didn't know how to make it not sound slightly patronizing.

"Your eyes," he said. "You have the eyes of an Elda, Lorna. Some of the Peredhel chose mortality, and intermarried among the Edain, but the fëa does not change."

She looked incredibly dubious. "You married me because'v my creepy eyes?" she asked. "Because I _might_ have some really distant ancestor who was once an Elf? Thranduil, as reasons go, that's still _really_ bloody stretching it."

He paused. She wasn't going to like this. At all. But he could not lie to her. Well, he _could_ , but he wouldn't. He owed her the truth. "Do you remember how I told you that something was coming?" he asked.

Lorna nodded.

"It will involve you," he said. "Of that I am sure. I think it will involve many people, but you will be among them. And I wanted to get to you before anyone else did. I knew that it might be you would want nothing more to do with me after that, our fëar touched, if only once."

There was a healthy chance that would enrage her, for he knew what it sounded like. Thranduil halfway wished it would, for it would be better than her current expression, which looked disturbingly close to betrayed.

"I probably should've guessed it was something like that," she said, after a long pause. "I mean, I've known all along it wasn't because'v me as _me_ , because you didn't _know_ me."

She swung her feet to the ground, staring at her fuzzy purple socks. Her shoulders were hunched, elbows rested on her knees, and Thranduil had to fight the urge to reach out and touch her. She knew instinctively that she would not appreciate it just yet.

"Y'know," Lorna said slowly, "me and Liam, we weren't perfect, but he loved me for who I am, not who I _could_ be. D'you even actually love me, Thranduil, or do you just love whatever it is I represent to you?"

"Lorna, how can you ask that question?" he asked, appalled.

She looked at him. "You're immortal, Thranduil," she said. "Your people probably court for decades, and you've known me for six months. That might be enough time for a human to fall in live, but an Elf? I know you were lonely as fuck, but that doesn't make it love."

There was little he could say to that, for in a sense, she was right: no Elf should fall in love in so short an amount of time, but he had, and not just because he was so lonely – though that did, admittedly, play a part. And yes, he _did_ partly love her for who and what she _could_ be, but that was not the only reason why.

He reached for her hand, and was relieved that she didn't pull away. "Lorna," he said, "you are mortal. One day you will die, and be lost to me forever. Do you think I would do that to myself, if I did not think you worth it? There is a reason so few of my kind have married yours. We know that our hearts will be broken. I could have wiped your memory and sent you on your way the day you entered my forest. I didn't because I saw _something_ in you, something I still cannot define. Whatever it is, I could not ignore it. I could not stay away from it. And in time, you and I will discover what it is."

She still looked incredibly dubious, and really, he couldn't blame her. It sounded like madness, but it was all he had. If there were further words to describe it, he hadn't yet found them.

"I'm trusting you, Thranduil," she said, giving his hand a slight squeeze. "I don't do that easily, so don't fuck that up, okay?"

"I will endeavor not to," he said, rising, and drew her to her feet as well. "We ought to see to our children."

She let him lead her along the path, but he was unfortunately certain this would not be the end of that conversation.

* * *

No, Thranduil, it is indeed not the end of it, and you can't exactly blame Lorna for it, either.

Title means "Mind Games" in Irish. As always, your reviews are the fuel to the engine of my brain. _Nyoom._


	13. Toradh

In which there are consequences for Grand Theft Ambulance, Thranduil screws up, and everyone goes home.

* * *

Declan Flanagan was not happy about this assignment, for all he'd asked for it.

He still had a bandage on his head, heavy white gauze. He didn't know which of those two lunatics had brained him with the ambulance door, but they were both guilty of stealing the bloody thing.

The motorways were finally clear enough to let him and his partner take a panda car to Lasgaelen, so off they went. The sky was blue and clear as a sapphire, the sun glittering so brightly off the snow that he'd had to break out his sunglasses. Mad, this weather was, but at least it had cleared off, for now.

He dry-swallowed two Paracetamol, wondering if he should have taken the day off. His head was still killing him – a dull, thumping pain that could easily make him queasy if he let it. Knocked out in the snow as he'd been, he could have blood frozen to death. He was going to throw every charge at those two that he thought would stick.

There was little enough traffic in the way; even with the roads cleared, most were staying home unless they absolutely had to be somewhere else. It meant that they made good time to Lasgaelen; if they were lucky, they'd have their pair of miscreants back at the station in time for tea.

Or so he'd thought. When they reached Lasgaelen, they found a damn ghost town.

The streets here hadn't seen a plow – the snow was smooth and unbroken, and over three feet deep. While it looked as though there were a few tracks through it, they were soft and sunken, filled in by new snowfall – not at all fresh. There wasn't a light to be seen, even in the businesses; everywhere, the shades were drawn.

He glanced at Johnny, who was frowning with unease. Johnny had been on the force a good fifteen years longer than Declan, who hadn't thought the man could _be_ uneasy. "Where first?" he asked.

"If anybody's about, they'll be in the pub," Johnny said, though he didn't sound confident at all. Adjusting his hat, he turned the car off and stepped out into the snow. They'd no choice but to walk from here.

The cold nearly stole Declan's breath, though at least there wasn't any breeze. Walking through all that snow was no picnic, and it didn't help that they couldn't tell the street from the pavements. It coated his trousers to the knee, a dusting of fine white powder that would soon enough melt from his body heat.

The ambulance, they found, had crashed into a light pole outside the surgery, and was as coated in snow as everything else; it had probably been there since the night it was stolen. The surgery itself was dead empty, the windows frosted like cataracts. He wasn't surprised when nobody answered his knock.

The pub was equally deserted, locked up tight. He scraped some frost from the window with his gloved fingers, and found there was frost on the inside of the glass as well. It had to have sat unheated for at least two days, if not longer.

"What in bloody hell's going _on_ here?" Johnny muttered. "We can't call this back in. They'd think we were daft."

"It's the truth, though, innit?" Declan said, perturbed. "I mean, we'd best knock on a few houses, just to be sure, but I think the whole bloody village went to stay somewhere else. If the power's off, it's no wonder, though I don't know how they'd get anywhere with the roads in this state."

"Those old tracks head out toward the fields," Johnny said, eying them. His seamed, weathered face was grim, and Declan didn't wonder why; if anybody had headed out that way, they were probably dead by now. "We'd best check."

That was the last thing Declan wanted to do. In spite of the Paracetamol, his head ached worse than ever, and his shoes were all wrong for trekking through the snow. Already his feet were going numb, and his hat was totally insufficient to keep his ears warm. It didn't help that his nose was also leaking like a faucet.

Nevertheless, off they went, trudging through the powdery white, and he tried to brace himself for the sight of corpses. They'd be absolutely mad to head this way, but obviously _somebody_ had – into the woods, it would seem.

Creepy, they were, and ancient, going by the size of the trees. There wasn't so much as a bird call to break the silence, either; everything was unnaturally still, and he was rather relieved that Johnny hesitated, too, when they actually reached the edge of the forest. It was good to know it wasn't just him.

Never had he seen such trees. He wouldn't have thought he'd ever apply the term 'majestic', to a forest, but some of these were as big around as the redwoods of California in America. They had to have stood since before the Romans came. The air beneath their skeletal branches…tingled, in a way he'd never felt before – too soft to precisely be called a pins and needles feeling, and almost ghostly.

Declan wasn't imaginative enough to assign it a name, but he wished he was. It wasn't unpleasant, but it was…alien. Unearthly. He found himself, for no concrete reason, wishing Irish police went about armed.

There was no sign of anyone, no additional tracks, fresh or otherwise. He wanted to get the bloody hell out of there, but if Johnny stayed, so did he.

Dammit.

Then again, Johnny didn't look any happier than he felt. Normally a ruddy man, his face had gone quite pale, though his nose was red from the cold.

"If we go too much further, we'll get lost," Declan said, offering a viable excuse to leave.

"Oh, you are already lost."

He nearly jumped out of his skin, for he hadn't heard anyone approach. The voice was male, English, very deep, and when he turned to spot its owner, he stared.

The man fit the physical description of the suspect – six five, long blond hair, nearly as pale as the snow. The description had not done his eyes justice, though – arctic, glacial blue, and at the moment brimming with anger. He wore not a coat, but a long silvery cloak – and he wasn't standing _in_ the snow, but _on_ it.

A frisson of fear shivered up Declan's spine, despite the fact that the man – if man he was – appeared to be unarmed. There was nothing remotely human in those eyes. What _was_ he?

Johnny unfroze before Declan did. "Sir, would you happen to know where the residents of this village are?"

"Safe," the man said flatly. "With me, for now. You two, however, cannot remain. Nor," he added, taking a step forward, the movement inhumanly smooth, "can you be allowed to remember."

Any idea of trying to arrest him was too ludicrous to be considered. Declan was no coward, but every instinct he possessed told him to run like buggery. He had little doubt this strange, terrifying creature would have no qualms about killing him.

A strange, knife-edged smile crossed the man's face. "Fortunately for you, Eldar do not kill without cause," he said. "And my wife would be quite displeased with me if I did now. I suggest, however, that you do not give me cause. Cooperate and I will not harm you."

Somehow, Declan didn't believe him. Primitive instinct still demanded he run, that icy shiver of fear working its way into his gut, colder than the air or snow. His legs, however, refused to cooperate; all his limbs felt leaden and useless.

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to come with us," Johnny said, to Declan's total disbelief. His voice, however, was not entirely steady.

The man laughed, very quietly, and it was the most terrifying sound Declan had ever heard – soft though it was, there was thunder in it. "I will walk you to the edge of the forest," he said, and now there was a certain measure of scorn in his pale eyes, "and you will go along your way, with no memory of this place."

It was then that Declan decided Johnny must have lost his bloody mind, for his partner drew his nightstick. "This isn't a laughing matter, sir. You stole an ambulance and assaulted Officer MacDowell."

All traces of amusement left the man's face. He was like a statue, pale and cold, his gaze remote and unforgiving as the moon. "I suggest you put that stick down," he said, his tone frigid. "You do not wish to be a threat to my family."

"Johnny, let's _go_ ," Declan urged, low. Since when did he have to be the sensible one in this partnership? This strange man-creature's hair was lit up almost silver in the sunlight, his eyes ancient and alien and borderline unholy. Not for a solid gold bar would Declan go anywhere nearer him, yet here was Johnny, the complete nutter.

"Not just yet." The bastard moved faster than a snake, surging forward and snatching Johnny's wrist. There was a hideous crack, and he dropped the baton with a cry, by the tall man's heavy eyebrows drew together, and surprise flickered briefly over his face.

"You people truly _are_ fragile," he sighed. Johnny stopped screaming, thank God, though his face had gone outright green, his dark eyes glazing over. "I will not apologize, but that was not my intent. Hold still."

Declan knew he had to get in there, had to try to defend his partner, even if that partner _was_ a bloody idiot, but he had too much self-preservation to attack this…person. Christ, he'd snapped Johnny's arm just by _grabbing_ it. Cold though it was, Declan was damp with sweat, fear sour in his mouth, and Johnny – Johnny really _wasn't_ moving. He was staring at the bastard, like he was in some sort of trance – and he kept staring, even when he was released. Even when this nightmare of a man approached Declan, his footsteps silent on the glittering snow.

Declan was not ashamed to admit he might have pissed himself. Just a little.

* * *

It was a full two days before power was restored to the town, but not everyone was so keen to leave the halls right off. The snow had stopped falling, but it showed no signs of melting; there was valid reason to hesitate.

Still, some left. Andrew took the Americans with him, and Gran went with Big Jamie to gather supplies for her cottage. She'd refused to speak to either granddaughter of her gift, to their everlasting annoyance.

Lorna and Thranduil had yet to continue their conversation, but she hadn't forgotten it. They tended to the twins, who still seemed to be growing, impossible though that was. Mairead, before she left, managed to extract a promise to come back in time for Christmas.

"What is Christmas?" Thranduil asked. They'd brought the twins with them to the healing wards, so he could check on her incision and keep an eye on them at the same time. The scent of all the herbs was beautifully relaxing, even if it did make Lorna sneeze a few times, tickling dry in her sinuses.

"It's a human – Edain – holiday," she said, hiking up her shirt. "I've never paid it much mind, but I've no doubt at all Mairead'll do it as it's meant to be done. You decorate your house, give each other presents, and eat until you're sick. In Ireland it's a big religious holiday, too, though I've never paid _that_ much mind, either." Her family hadn't exactly been a church-going sort, so she'd never given religion much thought one way or the other. She still didn't, despite knowing that at least one supernatural thing existed. Thranduil she could see and touch, but her life had never been conducive to something as abstract and intangible as religion.

Thranduil existed. Magic apparently did, too. That was enough to wrap her brain around, for now. She had no idea what _Elves_ believed in, and now was not the time to ask. Something told her the answer would take a while.

"I have no idea what to gift your family," he said, smearing cool, yarrow-pungent balm over her incision.

Lorna snorted. "I think this has been gift enough," she said. "Mairead's not easily impressed, but you've managed it. We can cook some sort'v Elf recipe they've not heard of before for dinner, and stick bows or something on the twins' heads."

She peered into the bassinet, a little anxiously. While her experience with babies was severely limited, she was pretty sure they were meant to cry and fuss a good deal more than the twins did. Thranduil said it was because they were half Elf, but she didn't have his freaky Elf hearing – she couldn't just listen to their breathing.

"Do we need to worry about them getting ill, or will they be like you in that?" she asked, watching them watch her with their big green eyes. The downy hair on their heads almost glowed in the light, as pale and soft as their father's.

"In truth, I do not know," he said, capping the jar of salve. "As you are mortal, they may well be susceptible to some illness, though I suspect less so than children who are fully Edain."

"God, I hope so. Kids pick up all sorts'v shite at school. When I was little, at least one'v us was always sick all winter long."

"Have you ever tried to contact any of your siblings, now that you are grown?" he asked, fixing her shirt for her. She tried not to shiver when his fingers brushed over her skin.

Lorna shook her head. "I don't think I want to know what's happened to them," she said. "They were all like – well, like I was. Too many drugs, too many bad decisions. If they're dead or in prison, I'd rather not know. Only reason I didn't go that way again myself after prison is 'cause I met Liam." And even then had smoked a fair amount of weed, up until she got pregnant. She'd been a cigarette smoker, too, and discovered the hard way how bloody awful nicotine withdrawal was. At least she hadn't had to go through _that_ this time around.

By his expression, Thranduil didn't understand, but he didn't press the issue. No doubt he thought it some human thing he _wouldn't_ understand, and he might well be right.

* * *

Beautiful as Lord Thranduil's halls were, Mairead was glad to get back to her own home – even if it was frigid as a meat-locker. She could actually see her breath, even once she'd shut the front door. There was frost on the inside of the windows as well as the outside, which the kids of course immediately started drawing smiley-faces in.

She cranked the thermostat up, and surveyed the house. There was no point in opening the salon again until they knew the power would stay on; she'd have a few days off work. Which was a damn good thing, because they only had three weeks until Christmas. Time to get cracking.

When she was a little girl, she and Gran and Grandda had always watched a load of American Christmas movies, and as an adult shed gone as overboard on the decorations as any film character. This was Lorna's first Christmas with the family, and probably Thranduil's first _ever_ , so it was going to be memorable, dammit.

Which meant she needed the ladder. And the staple-gun. And their four boxes of Christmas lights. And that was just the beginning.

* * *

After almost a week in what literally felt like another world, Big Jamie found going back to normal to be damn hard, and he knew he wasn't the only one.

It didn't help that with all the snow, things still weren't _normal_ at all. By now the roads were well enough plowed that he could get deliveries, which was a bloody good thing, since he hadn't a bite to feed anyone – and Molly at the Market wasn't much better.

He thawed out the pub while his children played in the snow, and Orla brought out the decorations. She set to stringing red and gold tinsel garland around with unusual determination, and he thought he knew why: she, like the rest of them, needed to remind herself that she was in the real world again.

How strange it was, knowing those vast caverns had sat so close all these generations, their existence unsuspected by the village. He still wondered how Lord Thranduil hadn't gone mad from the isolation centuries ago.

How long would he be able to handle watching the people of this village grow old and die, over and over again? If he wasn't close to them yet, he would be, if he kept up such regular contact. Just how many times could he do it, before he isolated himself again? Oh, he'd likely have his children, but they were a far cry from a whole kingdom. Losing Lorna would hurt him like hell, but losing the rest of them wouldn't be any picnic, either.

Jamie didn't know how anyone could want immortality. Not unless those you loved were immortal, too.

Maybe, eventually, finally, Lord Thranduil would follow the rest of his people. The thought was a sad one, but not half so sad as him cut off in his forest again.

All his life, Big Jamie hadn't given Lord Thranduil much thought. He felt rather bad about that now. The Elf had been held up as some sort of bogeyman, when all along he'd just been a very ancient, very _lonely_ person. It was no great wonder he'd latched so tightly onto the first person to be truly kind to him.

He was patently obviously possessive of Lorna, even if she hadn't really figured it out yet. What Jamie wondered was how possessive he might get over the rest of his 'subjects'. Was he going to get pissy if someone tried to move away? He seemed convinced that something terrible was in the offing, so he just might.

Oh well. That was the future. Meanwhile, life resumed. Jamie needed to invest in some sandbags, because once this snow melted, they'd be in for one mother of a flood. Again.

The sky through the window was a clear, cloudless blue, and he desperately hoped it would remain that way. As much as the kids would love a white Christmas, they didn't need more snow.

* * *

The sky stayed clear, the power stayed on, and two days later Lorna, Thranduil, and the twins went to her sister's house.

Thranduil would have loved to keep them all with him, but the twins really did need to be closer to the village's healing wards, now that the healers themselves were there. They seemed to be in perfect health, but it was best not to take chances. It was not as though they could safely be taken to a hospital if something _did_ go wrong.

And Lorna seemed pleased to be in her own home, strange though it still seemed to him. A large tree now stood in the corner of the room with the television, festooned with twinkling lights and colored glass balls. Indeed, the lights were bedecked everywhere, along with garlands of holly, some fake and some real.

Her family, he found, were not nearly so leery around him now. No, they did not mob him as they did her, but neither did they shy away. Mairead pressed a freshly-baked gingerbread cookie into his hand even as she peered into the bassinet. He was rather glad Lorna had her for guidance, since it had been so very long since he had dealt with a baby. Mairead's brood was proof that she knew what she was doing.

"I'm glad you're here," she said, eying him with a glint in her eye he was not entirely certain he liked. "I need help putting up the outside lights, and you're tall enough that you don't need a ladder."

Lorna burst out laughing, lifting Saoirse out of the bassinet. "For Christ's sake, Mairead, we've only just got here. Let him eat a few bloody cookies, and then we've got to find a way to fit this bassinet into my room without me tripping over it every time I get out'v bed."

"They still all right, then?" little Kevin asked. Thranduil wasn't much good at guessing the age of Edain children, but he suspected the boy was about eight, with his mother's freckles, his father's sandy hair, and eyes every bit as startlingly green as Lorna's. "They're so _tiny_."

"Well, sure they weren't done cooking yet when I had them," Lorna said, turning so he could inspect Saoirse, who immediately tried to grab his shirt. "They seem fine, though. Rap wood."

To Thranduil's silent amusement, the boy did just that, knocking his knuckles on the kitchen table. Saoirse actually turned her head to watch him do it.

He wondered if all Edain families were like this. Eldar hadn't had large families long before he was born; they usually stopped at two children, if they even had more than one. Elrond had three, but his sons were twins, and he had been a twin himself. And Thranduil suspected that even larger Eldar families were not this…boisterous. The other children hurried about in the background, dragging out boxes and bags, chattering away – they seemed to have far more restless energy than any Elven child. Eldar, as a rule, rarely wasted a movement, but Edain children in particular seemed not to care how much of their energy was squandered. It was apparently limitless.

Were the twins going to be like this? Eru, he hoped not. Legolas had been a quiet and self-contained child, especially after his mother died; Thranduil had never needed to chase after him. Lorna, when not weighed down by pregnancy, seemed rather energetic herself, and he feared their children would inherit it and then some. He rather dreaded the day they learned to walk – which would come rather sooner than it would for an Edain, he suspected. They were in fact going to have to, as she put it, child-proof the halls. And _that_ was going to be something of a nightmare.

He lifted Shane out of the bassinet, watching the boy take in his surroundings with open curiosity, his big green eyes roving over each of his family members. They stopped and fixated on Kevin, likely because he had the same eyes as their mother.

Lorna must have noticed, for she came over to tickle the baby under his chin, drawing a laugh from him. "You're a bit creepy like your da, aren't you, allanah?"

Mairead snorted, and Thranduil arched an eyebrow. "Creepy?"

Lorna actually patted his arm. "Thranduil, you're very pretty, but you _are_ a bit creepy to a human. Really, it's _because_ you're so pretty. Nobody's meant to look like you."

"I cannot decide if that is a compliment or a insult," he said dryly.

"Take it as a compliment," Mairead said knowingly. "It's best to do that with anything Lorna says, because she's got all the tact of an oyster. If she actually means to offend you, there's usually more swearing involved."

"Shut it, you," Lorna said, shifting the baby in her arms. Saoirse yawned, evidently unimpressed. "I need you lot to look after the twins for a bit. I'm taking Thranduil Christmas shopping."

"I'll get Gran to light a candle for him," Shannon muttered, dodging behind her mother to steal a cookie.

"What does that mean?" Thranduil asked. He certainly didn't like the sound of it.

Mairead snorted again. "It means you're so screwed only God can help you now."

"You shut it, too," Lorna ordered, lowering Saoirse back into the bassinet. "I've never been Christmas shopping before. I'd like to see what all the fuss is about." She gave the baby's head a pet, rather like one would pet a cat, and headed upstairs.

For some reason, that statement brought sorrow into Mairead's blue eyes.

"What is it, Mistress Mairead?" he asked, once Lorna had gone.

Mairead sighed, carding a hand through her wild red curls. "Sometimes I forget," she said. "For most'v us, Christmas shopping's a chore. Lorna's twenty-bloody-nine years old, and this is her first go at it. I'm glad she's got you with her – I'd hate her to think I pity her."

" _Do_ you pity her?" Thranduil asked.

"Yes," she said, "though she'd kick me if she knew. She'll not have you out long – there's not much in the village worth browsing. Take her to the pub afterward, if Big Jamie's got it all square yet. I'll look after the twins."

He looked at her curiously. "Lorna says you had never met, before she came to live with you."

She must have taken his meaning, for she said, "Well, she's family, isn't she? Mam, God rest her, didn't do right by any'v those kids. _Someone_ has to. Lorna'll not be changing the world, but she deserves better than what she's had 'til now. If you're smart, you won't press her about her childhood."

"That I already knew." He'd learned in fairly short order not to ask about her past; she volunteered what she wanted him to know. Thus far, that had been little, doled out in increments. Given how little he had said of his own past, it was only fair.

She reappeared wearing a black wool trench coat, one that fit so suspiciously well that it had to have come from Bridie. On her head, however, was a ridiculous blue hat with the TARDIS on it, and her gloves were striped with black and purple.

Thranduil shook his head. "Come, Dilthen Ettelëa," he said, offering her his arm. "Show me what shopping is."

* * *

Lorna was weirdly excited despite knowing she was probably going to be doing most of her shopping off Amazon, since there wasn't exactly much selection in town. Christmas shopping was something normal people did, and even after seven months, being normal was still a novel thing.

She had a bank account. An actual _bank account_ , with savings and everything, and a debit card she'd rarely used. It was a simple and silly thing to be proud of, but proud she was. She hadn't wound up like her parents after all.

The village, she saw, had been busy. Christmas lights had been wound around all the lamp posts on Main Street, which had also been hung with wreathes that looked distinctly home-made. The pavements were crowded, too, with dozens of people getting their shopping out of the way while they could, lade with parcels and bags. Sunlight glittered off the snow, and it was so damn picturesque it was almost too much.

Her debit card. Shit. After stealing the ambulance (not to mention knocking out the cop), there was probably a warrant out for her arrest, and couldn't they track things like debit card use?

She mentioned this to Thranduil, who paused, with an expression that in anyone else she would have described as shifty. "About that," he said.

"Why do I think I'm not going to like what you're about to tell me?" she asked, eying him warily.

Had Thranduil been anyone else, she would have expected him to make a face. As it was, he sighed. "Because you are not. Two men came looking for us two days ago – two guards. Cops, as you call them. I altered the memory of the elder with little difficulty, but the younger…manipulating the minds of Edain is no simple matter, and I do not have Lady Galadriel's precision. He now believes himself to be a child of five."

Lorna groaned. "Did you send them back to Dublin like that?"

"I had little choice," he said, "unless I wanted to put them in my dungeons, which, on the whole, I did not. The longer they stayed, the worse it would be."

"Bloody brilliant," she sighed. "I just know that's going to come back and bite us in the arse. I don't know _how_ , but it will."

"You are such an optimist, Dilthen Ettelëa," he said dryly. "If someone seeks you, they seek you. Do not let that stand in the way of a drink at the pub."

"I need one," she muttered.

* * *

Oops. Nice, Thranduil, but it could in fact have been worse.

Title means "Consequence" in Irish. As always, your reviews are the sunlight to the plant that is my brain.


	14. Míshuaimhneas

In which Lorna ain't no dummy, Johnny and Declan puzzle some people that she and Thranduil don't want wondering about them, and Lorna and her family learn a bit more about the history of the Elves.

* * *

Lorna remained quite freaked out until they were several drinks in at the pub, and left so tipsy she had to lean on Thranduil's arm for support.

While she hadn't found much in town, she'd found some, and when the pair of them got back to her house, they sat on her bed while she watched a YouTube tutorial on how to wrap a present. The twins gurgled happily to themselves beside her, and she marveled that her life was so damn _cozy_.

She was still wrestling with tape and paper when the tutorial ended, so she let Thranduil explore YouTube on his own. Out of everything in the modern world, he found the Internet the most fascinating, and she couldn't blame him. Lorna thought it was pretty fascinating, too. She was glad to have someone to explore the parts of modernity she wasn't familiar with, especially someone even more unfamiliar with them than her. It made her feel like less of an idiot.

Her room was beautifully warm while she worked (and swore), her little space heater at full blast. The red light of the lingering sunset poured in through her window, staining the posters on her wall. She was warm, she was dry and fed, and she was in a home with people she loved. How the hell had she got so lucky?

The only problem was this bloody wrapping paper. She'd cut and folded it as the video showed, but the result looked nothing like it was meant to – lumpy and uneven. Sod it all.

"Why are Edain so fascinated with cats?" Thranduil asked, watching an extremely fat tabby try to squeeze itself into a clay pot.

"Because they're cute," Lorna said, slapping a bow onto a box. Maybe if she stuck enough on, the crap wrapping job wouldn't be so noticeable. "And they do funny things."

"Sometimes your people mystify me, Dilthen Ettelëa," he said, shaking his head.

"Oh, they mystify me, too," she said, ripping open another package of bows. The twins both stared, so she had one to each of them, and was somewhat disturbed when they actually grabbed and held on. They really _were_ more advanced than average human babies. "Thranduil, what do we do if someone comes out here to find out what happened to those two cops? Their station or whoever'll know they were here. Even the one with a gap in his memory would raise questions, but the one with almost _no_ memory'll be worse. What went wrong?"

"I do not know," he sighed, turning to her. "As I said, I do not have Galadriel's precision, but that has never happened before. I also broke the other's arm, though not on purpose. IT is easy to forget how fragile your kind are."

Lorna groaned. "I hate to say this, but maybe you ought to've locked them up. At least if they were missing, they'd just be missing."

"Once upon a time, I would have," he said meditatively, "without a second thought, but if I had done that now, I could never have released them. I did not think you would be happy with me, should I imprison two of your own people forever."

That…really was bizarrely sweet. In a kind of fucked-up way. "You're right," she said. "They probably wouldn't've deserved it, no matter how annoying they are. I guess we'll just have to see what happens." The thought wouldn't have been half so frightening if not for the twins. So long as they had to be on the saline and formula drips – and from what Doc Barry said, that was likely to be at least another month, no matter how unnaturally tough they were – going on the run with them just wasn't an option.

Being trapped in Thranduil's halls, however, was. Beautiful though they were, she wouldn't want to stay there for too long without others around her. Lorna disliked the thought of being _trapped_ anywhere, no matter how lovely. Terrible as it was, she didn't feel properly at home in the halls, and she doubted Thranduil felt properly at home in her house. In his halls, in his forest, she felt strangely cut off from the rest of the world – though perhaps the feeling wasn't so strange. It was probably what he liked about them, because this was no longer his world, and hadn't been in centuries.

They really did have a lot of issues that needed to be addressed, before they got actually married. Dammit.

"Thranduil," she said, though she was quite sure she already knew the answer to the question she was about to ask, "if those two had been anything like a real threat – if we ever get anyone who's truly a threat – what would you do?"

His answer didn't surprise her in the least. "I would kill them," he said evenly, reaching out to brush Saoirse's forehead with his fingers. "You are my family, and this village is made up of my people. Defending you is as much my task as it is my right."

Though that was no less than she expected, Lorna was troubled by just how utterly lacking in concern _Thranduil_ sounded. How could he be so indifferent to the idea of killing someone? Sure, she was more than willing to break some bones in defense of those she loved, but she knew herself – she couldn't actually straight-up _kill_ someone. Not on purpose, anyway. Even her da had been an accident; no, she wasn't at all sorry he was dead, but she could never have killed him on purpose, no matter that he'd deserved it. She simply didn't have it in her.

She loved Thranduil, and she knew that he loved her, but at the same time, she wondered about him sometimes. He was kind, and protective, and he could be very sweet, in a dry, extremely understated way, but just now there was such _coldness_ in his eyes. She'd seen brief flashes of it in the hospital, when he believed them threatened, but now…it was always obvious that he wasn't human, but he'd never before seemed so very alien.

Lorna wasn't normally that great at reading people, and never had been, but for whatever reason, just now she could read Thranduil like a book. A comic book, with big, bright pictures. There was a touch of arrogance and a healthy dollop of possessiveness in those arctic eyes, a trace of haughtiness in the slight tilt of his chin, and she was reminded starkly of how little she really knew him. Granted, she hadn't exactly been forthcoming about her own past, but she had far, far less of it to talk about. Twenty-nine years was nothing compared to six thousand.

And that troubled her. _He_ troubled her. Oh, she wouldn't give him up unless he was pried out of her cold, dead hands, because she really _did_ love him, and she trusted him, for all he disturbed her, but he _did_ disturb her. She wondered anew just what this beautiful, ancient, inhuman creature saw in her, but she'd come to believe that he really might not be sure of it himself.

"Well, if God forbid it ever come to that, let's try some non-lethal methods first," she said. "In this modern world, the sort'v people that'd come looking for us can't just go missing. It'd get investigated, and the more it happened around here, the worse it'd get. All'v them going back with their minds wiped would look weird, but not half so weird as if they didn't go back at all."

Thranduil leaned forward, taking her hand. His skin was so very smooth, and the coolness of it always surprised her a little. She could feel the strength in his fingers, gentle though his touch was. Lorna was pretty damn strong, but she had no doubt at all he could break someone's neck with very little effort. "Dilthen Ettelëa, if things grow that dire, it will not matter if any know the dead are missing," he said.

She didn't know what he meant by that, and had no desire to find out.

* * *

Thranduil inwardly cursed his tiny wife's perceptiveness, even as he helped her get the twins settled for the night. It was not that he wished to _lie_ to her, per se, but there were facets of his being that he would rather she was not aware of just yet. She couldn't prevaricate to save her life; she wore her thoughts more openly than she likely realized, and he knew that he had unsettled her.

He ought to be grateful that she was smart enough to be aware of what he didn't say, that she was not simply infatuated to the point of being blind to the elements of himself that he tried not to show her. He could see her thoughts at work behind the impossibly green windows of her eyes – could read her as well as she read him. Thranduil knew that he had to be careful. Yes, he wanted her to know him, all of him, but he could not risk unnerving her to the point of withdrawal. If she knew some of what lay in his past, she might very well run.

And that would end poorly for everyone.

But she trusted him, for all he disconcerted her. She knew that he would never allow any harm to come to her, their children, or the rest of this village, even if his methods of defense might be more extreme than she would like. There was no tension nor guile in her when she fell asleep with her head on his chest, no hesitation when he touched her or she touched him. Had she been without darkness herself, it might have been otherwise, but he'd seen traces of what he was certain could be an explosive temper, if roused. In that, they were not so wholly unalike.

Idly, he carded his fingers through the long soft fall of her hair, watching the stars through her window. This house felt strange to him, though not unpleasant. Lorna loved it, and the people within it, so he must learn to adapt, especially while the twins were young enough and fragile enough to need to stay here.

Whatever was coming – and it _was_ coming – he prayed to whatever Valar might be listening that it would wait long enough for his children to be strong and sturdy.

* * *

Doctor Maeve Farrell was, for once, incredibly puzzled.

She'd seen a number of strange cases over the course of her career, but the cause was usually fairly straightforward. These two, however, especially the younger one…she really didn't know. And it was as intriguing as it was irritating.

They'd been brought to her very early in the morning – a pair of policemen, dazed, conditions unknown. The elder, an Officer Doyle, was suffering from memory loss and an inexplicable broken arm; the younger, Officer MacDowell, seemed to have lost the last twenty-five years of his life. The latter was perfectly coherent, but firmly believed himself to be five years old, and soon began crying for his mother. The elder was far less reactive, his responses to questions and stimuli slow and drunken.

What made it so peculiar was that both of them had tested negative for any type of drugs. They had, according to her file, gone to the village of Lasgaelen yesterday morning, hale and whole, and returned like this. And nobody knew how, or why.

Officer Doyle was currently asleep, having been given a mild sedative. His arm was encased in a white cast, his face already stubbled. Somehow, he'd managed to drive the fifty-odd miles from Lasgaelen to the station without wrecking, despite his arm. He was pale, frowning in his sleep, his heavy eyebrows drawn together.

Officer MacDowell was awake, occupied with a coloring book someone had produced from God knew where. _He_ was the truly interesting one. Though he was a tall man, everything in his bearing was that of a small child, and he seemed unaware of his height – always, when he stood, he gave his feet a puzzled look, as though surprised to find them so far below. Never had Maeve seen a case of regression so very complete, and she had no idea _why_. He hadn't been drugged; he'd suffered no stroke nor blood clot. Physically, he was in perfect health. He'd simply somehow totally forgot twenty-five years.

She disdained hypnotists, but at this point, she didn't know what else to try. Some of his fellow officers had brought items from his flat – his badge, a photo of his girlfriend, his favorite coffee mug, among other things – but none had evinced any recognition. His memory loss was suspiciously perfect.

 _Whatever_ had happened, she'd lay money it happened in Lasgaelen, though she couldn't imagine anyone or anything there being able to accomplish such a thing. She'd never even heard of the village until now, and a little research had told her it was one out of hundreds of tiny villages dying by degrees, its population striking out little by little. It had no industry, no history of note, no tourist attractions. Christ, they'd only gone out there to arrest a pair of nutters who'd stolen an ambulance, and they'd come back like _this_. It was deliberate on somebody's part.

She wasn't going to suggest sending anybody else out there. Not yet. Eventually, though – once she had a better idea what she was dealing with – then she'd recommend a task force be put together. Anyone who could do something this sophisticated could be a very active threat, if they chose.

* * *

Though the sky remained clear, the temperature somehow managed to drop yet further, and brought with it an icy wind that rendered outdoor activity impossible.

The power (mercifully) stayed on, but the cable got knocked out, and Lorna was startled by just how annoyed her family was by it. She hadn't realized they were so reliant upon it for entertainment. Yeah, she enjoyed it, but she wasn't going to die of boredom without it.

It was too cold to take the twins out even for a drive to the pub, so the lot of them sat ranged around the lounge, Christmas lights twinkling, a bright fire in the fireplace, while Thranduil told stories.

Lorna had had no idea just how much had gone on in ancient Earth that normal people hadn't been aware of. Seated next to Thranduil, each with a twin on their lap, she listened to his rich voice tell of Doriath, the vast Eldar settlement in what was now Canada. The settlement, in fact, where he had lived as a child.

"My own realm, even at its height, was tiny by comparison," he said, sipping hot chocolate. He was positively addicted to the stuff. "There were caverns, yes, but hundreds upon thousands of miles of forest as well. It was by far the largest nation of the Eldar in this world, protected from war and harm by the magic of its queen, Melian. There lived the greatest of our craftsmen, our poets and artists – but not, thanks to Melian, the greatest of our warriors. There was little need of them, and they did not see the regular battles of the other realms. And unfortunately, this later became a problem.

"Doriath might yet stand, if not for an army of Dwarves and the greed of Melian's husband, Thingol. He had in his possession a jewel, a Silmaril, one of the most beautiful things ever crafted – they have an entire tale of their own, though it is long, and even less happy than that of Doriath. He desired to have it set in a necklace, and hired a group of Dwarves to do the work, for Dwarves were always superior craftsmen themselves. They, however, desired to keep it for themselves, and slaughtered Thingol in his own caverns, likely driven temporarily mad by greed for that accursed jewel.

"Naturally, they were soon killed themselves, but Melian, in her rage, quit this world – and without her, her protection failed. It was not long before an entire army of Dwarves invaded, and turned the caverns and the forest nearest them into a bloodbath. This went on and on, back and forth, until the population was much reduced."

"Harsh," Shannon muttered, wincing.

"Oh, it gets worse," Thranduil said grimly. "The final destruction of Doriath came about not thanks to Dwarves, but other Eldar. The sons of the one who crafted the Silmarils had sworn an oath to kill any who stood in the way of retrieving them, and for whatever reason, none who held one seemed willing to part with it. Dior, grandson of Melian and Thingol, kept the Silmaril, and got himself and his wife killed for their trouble, along with the bulk of what remained of Doriath's people.

"I was little more than a child when Doriath fell, but I remember well what it was at its height – and I remember its destruction. It was the first of battle I had ever witnessed, and it came at the hands of my own people. You must understand, Eldar do not kill one another. It is beyond taboo. The sons of Fëanor, and the Kinslayings they perpetuated, were the most monstrous things we could have imagined. And all for three jewels." He sighed. "I never saw the Silmaril myself, but I cannot imagine how something not deliberately enchanted to be enticing could cause so much grief. My parents would never speak of it.

"One of the things has gone beyond the bounds of this world; what has happened to the other two, I do not know. I only hope they will never be found. If they could drive Eldar to do such things to one another, I do not wish to know what they would do to your kind, who are so often at fatal odds with one another already."

Lorna shivered. She didn't think she wanted to know, either. "Have you got any _happy_ stories?" she asked, looking up at him.

He arched an eyebrow. "Truly happy stories are few and far between. You likely have more than I."

"We've got more sinners than saints ourselves," Mairead sighed, draining her mug of cider. "And Ireland's history is more or less one long tragedy. Most truly happy things that happen aren't grand enough for stories. They're just people, being good to one another when they've no direct reason to be."

"When we get the Internet back, I'll take you to YouTube and show you the 'Faith in Humanity' videos," Lorna promised him. "We can be shit, yeah, but that's not all there is to us."

"That," he said, touching little Saoirse's fuzzy head, "I already realized."

* * *

Lorna, for all she loves Thranduil, is neither blind nor stupid. She's not going further into this relationship with her eyes shut. The fact that he chooses not to be terrifying around her and the village doesn't change the fact that he _could_ be.

The story of Doriath is from _The Silmarillion_. We don't actually know when Thranduil was born, but it's reasonable to assume he lived in Doriath at some point, since he's Sindarin. And the ancient, thick forests of Canada would be perfect for Nan Elmoth.

Title means "Unease" in Irish. As ever, your reviews sustain my soul.

: He's working on her Christmas present in the next chapter, though she won't receive it yet.

Guest: That is the funniest mental image I've had in ages. XD


	15. Caoineadh

This is a shorter chapter, but it's because I'm gearing up to their Christmas party. Thranduil is going to be _fascinated_ (as will Lorna; she's never really experienced Christmas, either).

* * *

For the next few days, Thranduil took to disappearing into his forest for long stretches each day, returning in time for dinner. All he would say of it was that he was working on Lorna's Christmas present, so she didn't press him about it. Especially since it gave her time to work on his.

For Mairead and Company she had bought things, but she thought it best to make him one. The trouble was that she was shite at everything but knitting.

Eventually she settled on starting a scrapbook, shelling out more than she ought to have for a big wooden book of parchment. It was oak, sanded and polished, a delicate, branching tree carved onto the cover. It was beautiful, and it probably weighed a good five pounds. The texture of the parchment was pleasantly alien beneath her fingers.

She borrowed one of Mairead's blue stamp-pads, and pressed a tiny fingerprint from each twin onto the first page. She'd actually saved one of the leaves that had been stuck in her hair after her and Thranduil's bout of sexcapades, so she ironed it between sheets of waxed paper and stuck it onto the center of the page.

Nuala sent her a photograph of the stolen ambulance's number plate, which she printed out and put in as well, but after that and the twins' last ultrasound, she was at a loss. There wasn't much in the way of documentation of their still-new relationship.

Oh well. It was a good start, and she'd take plenty of pictures at Christmas.

She shoved the book under her bed, wincing at the dull pain in her incision. Thranduil was lucky they'd got two kids for the prices of one, because seriously, she was _never_ doing that again. Even now she slept more than she ought to, her stamina was shot to hell – and according to Nuala, she likely had a good five more weeks until she was somewhere close to normal.

"You two are lucky you're so cute," she said, looking at the pair of them. She'd been trying to keep them upon the bed with her as often as she could, so they could interact while she worked – and it remained a touch unnerving, just how aware they really were. It was probably a good thing she didn't have more experience with human babies, or it might have been even more jarring. Even in the warmth of her room, she had them bundled in fleece blankets, their various drips hanging off a hook she'd screwed into the ceiling.

"And what's going to happen to the pair'v you, when you're older?" she asked, letting Shane grip her index finger. She still couldn't believe human hands could be that tiny. "What if you want to travel? How in God's name are we to get your identities sorted, without getting arrested?"

The baby only gurgled in response, and his sister belched – a surprisingly loud belch, for so

She managed it, but only got puked on herself for her trouble – all over her flannel trousers. Lovely.

She grabbed a cloth and wiped Saoirse's face with it, then tried to struggle into clean PJ bottoms one-handed, nearly hanging herself on the IV line as she did.

Naturally, that was how Thranduil found her – trousers halfway down her knees, plastic tube around her neck, crying baby in one arm. He didn't laugh, and his mouth only tilted in the barest hint of a smile, but the arch of an eyebrow told her he thought the entire thing hilarious.

"Hush, you," she said, scowling. "Here, take her." She passed him the fussing Saoirse, and disentangled herself form the tubing before hiking up her trousers. Thranduil's pale eyes still shone with amusement, and her own narrowed.

"Were I an artist, I would draw you as you just were," he said, sitting on the bed beside Shane. In his high-collared, russet tunic, he really did look terribly out-of-place in her bedroom – even if he _was_ wearing a pair of bright red carpet slippers given to him by her brother-in-law.

Saoirse left off her crying so she could chew on his hair – an action he tolerated with only a slight sigh. Lorna didn't even want to imagine what they'd be like, when they started teething. Her youngest brother, Mick, had been a nightmare, quiet only when Mam gave him a frozen pacifier.

"Your sister gave me this," Thranduil said, fishing something out of his pocket. It looked like an iPhone. "I do not know what it is."

"It's a mobile," Lorna said, taking it from him. It seemed alarmingly flimsy, sleek and black, and she had to hunt for the power button. "Mairead's got one like it, though she'll barely let me touch it. You can do all sorts with this kind – even go on the internet, though I've no idea how to make it work myself."

"Well, you will have the time to work it out," he said, prying his hair out of Saoirse's grip. "She bought you one as well."

Lorna winced a little. She didn't know just how much an iPhone cost, but she knew they weren't cheap, and Mairead had sprung for two of the things?

"You seem troubled," he said, watching her closely.

"It's the bloody ambulance," she sighed, sitting beside him and lifting Shane into her arms. "We'll not get away with that, once the snow melts. Once upon a time, thought of six months in gaol would've sent me haring off on my own, but now? Sure God, I can't do that now. I'll have to be hiding until the statute'v limitations runs out – six years for the cop, and Christ knows for the ambulance. With my record, they could put me away however long they wanted."

"Is that such a hardship?" Thranduil asked, brushing the fringe off her forehead. "Did you truly want to travel?"

"It's one thing to not _want_ to, and another to know you _can't_ ," she sighed. "No, I'd no plans to travel, but I can't use my debit card. I had to borrow Big Jamie's for my Amazon shopping, and pay him back when Mairead pulled everything out'v my account." All her cash was now in a jar under her bed, which was a bit depressing. She'd liked having a bank account, like a normal person.

Lorna sighed again. "I know it's stupid, but – I almost feel like I'm right back where I started. As a criminal, I mean. Yeah, it was necessary – it's not like a knocked over a jewelry store or anything – but the law wouldn't care."

Thranduil tucked her hair behind her ear. "No one in this village cares," he said. "They are the only ones who really matter. You are still young enough yet, Dilthen Ettelëa, even for an Edain. Seven years is not so long."

She managed a brief smile. "I know," she said. "Meanwhile, we've got to figure out what to do if more cops turn up. You can't just keep wiping their memories – wait. I know what we'll do. If Mairead files a missing-person's report on me, nobody'll come looking for me here, and legally, you don't exist. With my criminal history, the idea'v me running's no stretch at all."

The thought kind of sucked, honestly, but it would be worth it – and really, she didn't see any other options. They couldn't forever live in fear that someone would come poking around, and Thranduil really couldn't keep playing hob with people's minds. The more than went home with holes in their memory, the more others would get curious. Even the protection of the Age of Skepticism would only last for so long, if enough weird shit made itself known.

Christmas. They'd get through Christmas, and deal with it then.

* * *

Christmas, Thranduil decided, was much like the winter feasts of the Wood-Elves – it simply went on longer. The holiday itself had yet to arrive, but much of the village was now crammed into the pub, eating and drinking and singing off-key.

Between the fireplace and the sheer number of people, it was very warm, the air redolent with the scent of roast beef, hot cider, and a haze of alcohol that was nearly palpable. The metallic garland glinted in the firelight, little colored lights on strings twinkling all along the ceiling. It was…strange, yet not unlovely.

Seated in a corner, with Lorna beside him and Shane in his arms, he was reminded of other feasts, so very long ago – his great hall, filled with his people, doing much the same thing as these Edain. Legolas moving among them, healthy and strong, dancing with all and sundry – so much more open than his embittered father.

And yet, embittered or not, Thranduil had watched from this throne and felt the warmth of something another might have called affection. Yes, he could be harsh, and cold, but his people were safe, celebrating with little care in the world. Their voices were like music, their eyes jewel-bright, a swirl of silk and velvet as they danced – they were his people, and he had long kept them safe, even while other Elven realms fell and faded.

He could not truly blame them for leaving, slowly but steadily. When the Sea called, it called; there was no gainsaying it forever. And after the Obliteration…he well understood why they would go, though he felt no such compulsion himself.

And now look at him – King of a handful of Edain, their lives so bright and so achingly brief. He knew it would be unwise to grow attached to them – once upon a time, it would never have been a possibility, but he had been alone for so very, very long.

He should have sailed long ago, but some instinct told him that even had he wanted to, he would not have been allowed. In his heart, he knew that for whatever reason, he was bound to this world. To these people. The Valar were more cruel than he had realized, to give him something he knew he would inevitably lose – and in not very long at all, by his reckoning.

Lorna poked his arm. "What's wrong?" she asked. "You're brooding."

Thranduil looked down at her. Her eyes were bright with alcohol, though Nuala had sternly ordered her not to have more than one. "I have not the words to explain," he said, and it was true enough. Lorna was young and mortal; there was no way she could really understand. There were none left in this world who could.

Her eyes flicked to the crowd, which was growing ever louder and more inebriated. "You miss them," she said, "don't you? Your people?"

"Yes," he sighed, "but it is more than that. More than I can explain."

She grabbed his free hand and gave it a squeeze. She must have realized that there was nothing that could really be said to that, for she didn't try. There were some things that could only be dealt with alone.

He looked down at Shane, who was watching the crowd with avid interest, his big green eyes roving to and fro. An Eldar infant would be close to self-awareness by now, even after so short a time, and he suspected the twins might be near enough themselves. Even yet, he did not know just what strange combination of senses they might have; their mother was Eldar, yes, but clearly they had inherited a few characteristics from him as well.

He was not alone – was no longer the last of the Eldar. Yes, they might decide to choose mortality, but they might not. It would be years yet before the choice was even offered.

He could live with that.

* * *

Poor Thranduil. Some things are just going to be hard for him sometimes. As for Lorna, the fact that she's basically on the run again (so to speak), is really going to grate in fairly short order.

Title means "Worry" in Irish. As always, your reviews fill me with warm fuzzies.

hikaru shinyi: There are two other parts, set in Middle-Earth: _Ettelëa_ and _Auth uin i Ettelëai_ (meaning Stranger and War of the Strangers, respectively.) They're both up on my profile. :)


	16. Oíche Nollag

This one is rather late, but I've been extremely busy. Both my parents had surgery this month, and my daughter came down from school for Christmas, so writing has been on the back burner.

In which Christmas Eve happens. God help everyone. Note: This is not how you deep-fry a turkey. Not at all. Do not attempt, at home or anywhere else, unless you feel like burning down everything around you.

* * *

Christmas Eve, Lorna decided, was either a dream or a nightmare. She didn't yet have enough experience to know which.

Mairead and Gran had been in the kitchen all day, arguing over the food. The kids had all gone out to play in the snow for a while, Thranduil was off somewhere being mysterious, and Lorna's brother-in-law had dragooned her into helping with the turkey. Apparently he'd read that Americans sometimes deep-fried them, so now he had to try it. Her role was to stand by with the fire extinguisher, in case something blew up. Given that the fryer was home-made, that was a distinct possibility.

It was freezing, the thin afternoon sunlight providing nothing at all in the way of warmth, but she didn't dare go too near the…thing. It was half a beer keg borrowed off Big Jamie, set atop the barbecue – a Weber gas giant that was groaning so much under the eight that she feared it might collapse at any moment.

"Are you really sure this is a good idea?" she asked, yet again. Normally she'd be all about things exploding, but this was Christmas dinner, dammit. If Kevin blew up their turkey, Mairead wouldn't be the only one out for his blood.

"I know what I'm doing," he assured her – a bald-faced lie, and they both knew it. The heat of the barbecue had sent his face blooming red, sweat gathered at his temples, dampening his sandy hair.

The turkey was a thirty-pound monstrosity he had to wheel over in a cart. When he went to manhandle it up into his makeshift deep-fryer, Lorna peered closer.

"Kevin, you've not left it frozen, have you?" she asked, incredulous. Christ, even _she_ knew better than that.

"It's not like there's been any place to thaw it," he pointed out, hefting the thing up onto his shoulder.

"Kevin, don't –" He was going to do it. He was actually going to – she couldn't spray him with the fire extinguisher, or Mairead would kill her. Tackling him was likewise right out. Without thinking, she planted her left boot onto the barbecue and shoved, hard. If she let Kevin blow his face off, Mairead would never forgive her.

The deck was still so icy that the thing shifted startlingly easily, skidding more than rolling. She'd intended to just nudge it out of the way, but it picked up an alarming amount of momentum before she could grab it – which was just as well, since it would have just dragged her right after it.

"Lorna, what –" Kevin flailed, slipping and nearly dropping the turkey anyway. To her horror, the barbecue slid right on by him, and crashed into the railing. Thank Christ it didn't break, but it was enough to tilt the keg – and its boiling oil – all over deck and barbecue alike.

A gout of flame a good fifteen feet high shot up, the heat searing Lorna's face. She flailed frantically with the fire extinguisher, spraying it, the deck, and herself with foam – though thankfully she missed the turkey.

"You can't put something frozen in hot oil, you eejit!" she cried, before he could get started. "Youd've had no face!"

"My barbecue," he groaned, staring at it with the expression of someone who had just watched their child get murdered.

"It'll live, and so will you," she growled. "You're welcome. If you value your life, you'll not tell Mairead what you were about to do."

"My _barbecue_ ," he repeated, still staring.

Before she could shout at him, the fire sprang back to life in one great _whoosh_. Lorna frantically attacked it with the extinguisher again, not pausing even when Mairead wrenched open the sliding-glass door and demanded to know what the hell was going on.

"Shite-for-brains was about to drop a frozen turkey into boiling oil," Lorna snapped, jerking the hose so she could hit every square inch of the barbecue.

" _What?_ " That was a bellow the like of which Lorna had never yet heard from her sister, who launched into a stream of invective even she found impressive.

Kevin looked rather like he wanted to hide behind the turkey, his face as red as his woolly hat, and she couldn't blame him. She occupied herself with the barbecue, plastering the entire thing with foam until the extinguisher ran dry.

"For Christ's bloody sake, you'd've burned your face off!" Mairead screeched.

"That's what I said," Lorna grunted, shaking the extinguisher.

Kevin wisely said nothing. When Mairead was on the warpath, even _Lorna_ wouldn't argue with her. She grabbed the turkey, staggering a little under the weight, and waddled her way into the house with it.

He shot Lorna an extremely dirty look before heading inside, but at least he still had eyes to look _with_. She ignored him, and managed to get a last squirt out of the extinguisher. It sizzled when it hit the barbecue.

Naturally, that was when Thranduil showed up.

Thranduil was not the most expressive of beings. He rarely laughed, and most of his smiles edged on smirks. He communicated his amusement through his eyes, the subtle twitch of his mouth and arch of an eyebrow. He might not be laughing on the outside, but he sure as hell was on the inside.

"I fear to ask," he said, moving over the snow as silently as a ghost. In his slivery cloak, he rather looked like one.

"You ought to," she said, eying the barbecue with suspicion. If it burst into flames again, she was going to shove it onto the lawn; at least if it exploded, it wouldn't take the whole bloody house with it. "We'll not be having turkey tonight, but Mairead's pitching such a fit that we might just be eating my brother-in-law instead." Indeed, her shouting in the kitchen could be heard even out there.

Thranduil looked so disturbed that Lorna wondered if he took her words literally. "Is cannibalism customary in this festival?"

"No," she said, "but that eejit would've burned his face off and the house down if I hadn't stopped him, and now the menu's banjaxed to hell. If Mairead doesn't kill him, Gran will."

"I think this is perhaps going to be more entertaining than I expected," Thranduil said dryly. "And you will freeze, if you stay out here any longer."

"You're probably right." Even in Kevin's quilted hunting jacket, she was shivering. If the barbecue _did_ explode in her absence…well, that would just be more entertainment.

In they went, Lorna slipping and sliding, and she breathed a sigh of relief when warm air enveloped her. She shucked her foam-covered coat, wisely leaving it out on the deck, and sniffed – the house was redolent of stuffing and mincemeat, and half a dozen things she had only heard of, and hadn't been sure was actually real.

Mairead, still in the kitchen, appeared to be genuinely on the edge of murder. "She was right, you eejit!" she yelled, at a Kevin who had evidently retreated. "You'd've boiled your own brain!" The force of her ire was somewhat undercut by the fact that she was still hugging the turkey.

Lorna looked at Thranduil, whose expression was curious and bemused. If he'd known what an anthropologist was, he probably would have felt like one.

"Is this as weird for you as it is for me?" she asked, while Mairead slammed the turkey into the sink, muttering that they'd never get it thawed in time.

"I do not yet know," he said dryly. "I do not have any basis for comparison."

"Neither do I," she muttered.

"This is nothing," Gran said. "When I was a girl, it wasn't properly Christmas until someone had been lamped out. Usually in church."

Again, his mouth twitched into that almost-smile. "The feasts of my people were not violent, but they could be rather…spirited," he said. "Other reams saw our drinking as excessive, but other realms did not have such fine wine. Limited oneself to a single glass was impossible."

Lorna gave him a suspicious look. "Your people're the reason the Irish like a good drink so much, aren't they?"

"Perhaps," he said blandly, that little Thranduil-smile growing a fraction more evident. "Few of you ever saw our celebrations, but once we traded wine and ale freely with you."

"And five thousand years later, we've got one'v the highest rates of alcoholism in the world," she snorted, kicking off her boots. "Thanks for that. It's been called the Irish Virus, and it's _so_ nice to know we caught it from you."

He looked wholly unrepentant, and she realized he probably didn't know what alcoholism even was. His education would have to continue after the holidays.

Mairead continued to splash the turkey, muttering darkly, and Kevin wisely slunk into the lounge, where the four kids were monitoring the twins. 'Monitoring' in this case meant sticking bows on them.

Lorna led Thranduil that way, too, not wanting to get in her sister's way. In this mood, only Gran could deal with her. The couch was the safest place to be.

* * *

Thranduil said little, but he watched them all with interest.

He would wager that the common folk among his people had once celebrated thus – though likely with less cursing. Once – long, long ago – he and Anameleth and Legolas had rung in the new year together, their own private celebration after the formal feast. It had been nothing like this, for they had no other family; it had been quiet, calm, the three of them seated beside the fire with mulled wine.

There was a fireplace here, too, bright and warm, the logs burning high. Mairead's four children were ranged around the twins on the floor, busy with bows and ribbons, which the babies naturally chewed on. Kevin had retreated to the corner, looking rather like he expected to be executed at any moment. Given his wife's current mood, his fear might not be unfounded.

The large tree in the corner was now surrounded by brightly-wrapped boxes of all sizes. He had brought over all but Lorna's gifts last week; hers he would give in private. Mairead would almost certainly not like what he was giving her children, but they might well have need of it later Hopefully she would be mollified by _her_ present.

Shannon hauled herself to her feet, disappearing into the kitchen. She returned with two mugs, one held precariously with a thumb half blocked by her cast. Even at a distance, he could almost see a haze of fumes above them.

"Gran's secret recipe," she said. "Not even Mam knows what's in it."

"I'm not sure _I_ want to know what's in it," Lorna said, sipping carefully as soon as a mug was handed to her. "Christ, it burns."

Thranduil hazarded a sip himself, and found that it did indeed burn. There was a taste of apples, but also a combination of spices he couldn't identify, infused with sweet cream. Its potency could rival that of Dorwinion.

"Gran let me have a sip once," Shannon whispered. "I didn't think my nose would ever stop running."

"I don't wonder why," Lorna said. "This'd clean out the sinuses even better than Wasabi."

A slightly unholy gleam entered her eyes. "Tell you what," she said. "I can't have this much alcohol so soon after my C-section, so why don't you and I split this? It'll give your mam something to give out over that isn't the turkey."

Thranduil snorted, but said nothing. Shannon was not yet his sister-daughter in Lorna's eyes; he had no place to comment. It definitely _would_ give Mairead cause to forget the turkey.

Shannon, slightly wide-eyed, took the mug. She choked a bit when she drank, her eyes immediately watering, and Lorna grinned.

"Your sister will murder you in your sleep," he said.

"Not with you here, she won't. Christmas armistice."

He had no idea what that meant, being unfamiliar with the word 'armistice', but he doubted it would be enough to mitigate Mairead's wrath. The damage, however, was already done; even after only a few swallows, Shannon's face had gone red with drink, her eyes shining.

"That's the spirit," Lorna said, leaning against his shoulder as she took the mug back. "When your mam blows a gasket, send her to me."

Shannon nodded, giggling, and tripped a little on her way back to the twins.

"I hope you have a bag packed, for when your sister throws us out into the snow," Thranduil said dryly.

"She'll not do any such thing," Lorna retorted. "She'd never send the twins out in such cold. If she's mad at Kevin, Shannon, _and_ I, nobody'll bear the full brunt of it."

"You are a ridiculous creature," he said, though there was some logic to it.

"So you've said," she grumbled, looking up at him. "Many times."

"I only speak the truth, Dilthen Ettelëa."

Her eyes narrowed. "Right. Drink your booze, Drag Queen Barbie."

On the floor, Shannon laughed so hard she choked, and the others burst into giggles. Even Kevin snorted.

"I take it that is not a complimentary epessë," Thranduil said.

"Epessë?" Lorna asked.

"I believe you might call it a nickname."

"Ah. Well, it's no worse than 'Little Stranger'," she said. "Barbie's a doll with long blonde hair, and a drag queen is a bloke who wears women's clothing. Don't you dare to try to tell me that's not a dress," she added, poking the deep green brocade of his tunic.

"It is not," he said, with an arch of his eyebrow.

"It's bloody fancy and it's got a skirt," she said. "By my standards, it's a dress."

"I will never win this argument, will I?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

She gave him a cheeky grin. "Nope," she said. "You might as well quit while you're ahead."

He was unfamiliar with that phrase, too, but he could guess its meaning well enough. His recent time among the Edain had taught him a word he thought suited Lorna quite well: snarky. She certainly could not be called demure. Eru know what he would do, if their children turned out like her.

Mairead, her face still as red as her hair, came stomping into the lounge. "Well, there'll be no turkey tonight, and probably none tomorrow, either. The bloody thing's still frozen solid. We'll just have to make do."

"We could feed half the village on what we've got already," Lorna said, clearly trying to be soothing.

"When I was a girl, we never had turkey," Gran called from the kitchen. "Nor half this other mess. We were lucky if we had a chicken to fry."

"Shane stole us a turkey one year, when we lived in the warehouse," Lorna said. "The kitchen was at the back'v the house, and the family were all watching TV in the lounge at the front, so he just walked right in and nicked it out'v the oven. There were so many'v us we only got a few bites, but he'd got some things from the soup kitchens, too. He was the only one who ever could," she added, scowling a little.

"Why?" Mairead asked.

"If you're a minor alone in a soup kitchen or shelter, they call the cops to get you stuffed into foster care," Lorna replied, her tone indicating quite well what she thought of _that_ idea – whatever it actually was. "One bout'v _that_ was enough."

"Were they mean?" little Niamh asked.

Lorna shook her head. "No, they actually seemed pretty nice. It was just…they didn't understand. They wanted me to be something I didn't know how to be, like that would somehow erase everything that went before. Christ, they wanted me to change my bloody _name_ – they wanted to call me Mary. It was a child they were after, but not me. They would've done the same to any girl. I legged it out the window at night after a week. The woman'd told me that afternoon she wanted me to get a haircut – wanted to chop it all the way up to my shoulders."

Mairead snorted. "Of course _that'd_ be the thing that drove you off."

"Nobody touches the hair," Lorna said, in a tone that brooked no argument.

* * *

Mairead really was in a foul temper. She'd wanted this dinner to be perfect – she should have known better than to let Kevin try to deep-fry the bloody turkey. The thing was so huge that it probably wouldn't thaw until New Year's. This was the first proper Christmas both Lorna and Thranduil had ever seen, and she wished it needn't have started out such a mess.

There were the twins on the floor, covered in bows and apparently fascinated by them. At least they were too young to remember this – or so she assumed. They were half Elf; who knew just when their sense of self-awareness began.

Well. Lorna was right – they did indeed have more than enough food. Still, Mairead wasn't going to let Kevin forget the turkey any time soon.

When they sat, Lord Thranduil's curiosity was amusing, but Lorna's was just sad. Mairead wondered just how much of this food she had never seen before.

There was stuffing, and smoked salmon, potatoes both baked and mashed, Christmas cake, Christmas pudding, four different kinds of cheese, and a fruit salad recipe she'd found online, that she'd unfortunately had to make with canned fruit. Accompanying it was some mystery concoction Gran had brought – it looked like black pudding, and smelled strongly of cherries and alcohol.

Speaking of alcohol, Shannon was looking suspiciously flushed and bright-eyed. Mairead glanced at Lorna, who seemed to be doing her best to look innocent. It wasn't working. She'd have to be dealt with later.

"All right," Mairead said. "Grace, the lot'v you. I'll probably regret this, but Lorna, you have a go at it."

The children groaned, but both Lorna and Lord Thranduil looked intrigued. She made a mental note to ask about Elvish religious beliefs at a later time.

"Good food, good meat, good God, let's eat," Lorna said, looking slightly nervous.

"And _thank_ God Kevin's still got a face," Mairead said pointedly.

* * *

Some of the food was strange to Thranduil, but cake was cake, be you Eldar or Edain. He ate slowly, watching Lorna and the children – how such small people could eat so much was beyond him.

Bridie was surveying the family with blatantly possessive pride. Her children were scattered to the four corners of the world – or dead, in the case of Lorna and Mairead's mother – but she had her granddaughters, and her great-grandchildren, all warm and well-fed under one roof. It was a wonder how so many Edain could cling to their families, all the while knowing they would lose one another someday. Mortality had to be a terrible burden to bear.

And they didn't even know where they went when they died. _No one_ knew, save Ilúvatar. It was, Thranduil thought, a strange cruelty, for they were the only race who didn't. The Dwarves could be assured of a place in Aulë's halls, where they would presumably feast and drink to their hearts' content, but Edain? They had to step blindly into a complete mystery. Their lives were so short that he wondered how they could bear it.

Perhaps that was why they came together like this. They needed to make the utmost of what time they had.

* * *

Thranduil, you are quite right. Title means "Christmas Eve" in Irish. As ever, your reviews feed my brain. Feed me. Om nom.


	17. Lá Nollag

In which Christmas morning happens, the kids get grossed out, Mairead wants to murder Thranduil, and both he and Lorna are rather bemused by the whole thing.

* * *

Thranduil had never before understood the term 'food coma', but he was apparently witnessing it now. It wasn't long after dinner that the family started nodding off – all but the youngest, who eyed the presents with open greed.

Lorna herself was drowsy, Saoirse asleep on her lap. He brushed a lock of hair back from her forehead. "If you fall asleep here, you will regret it tomorrow," he said. "Come, Dilthen Ettelëa. We must put the twins to bed."

She yawned hugely – something that had rather startled him, when he first saw it – and hauled herself to her feet, careful not to wake the baby. She bid her family a slightly hazy good-night, and followed him up the stairs.

Her house, though cozy and warm, was too small. Mercifully, it was outside of the village proper, and thus not surrounded by that unnatural stone, but he would still not want to live here. The world of the Edain might be vast, but it felt so very small.

No, he could not stay here for long. He would see the family through these holidays, but then he must return to his forest. The twins were not yet hardy enough to be taken far from the healer, so Lorna could not yet go with him, but he would show her his forest in springtime. It was her forest, too, and if some disaster eventually befell them all, she had to be prepared to live there.

The entire village did. They all seemed almost dependent on their technology, which they would not have in his halls. They must learn to live without it, while they had a chance to do it voluntarily.

He and Lorna settled the twins for the night, and once she'd crawled into her own bed, she was asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow.

Thranduil sat beside her, eying his mobile phone as one might a puzzle. He still could not read the Edain alphabet, but he suspected being capable would not truly have helped. There were a dozen buttons on the thing called a screen, each with a picture. According to Lorna, it could access the internet – though in truth, she was hardly proficient at its use herself. She might be more adept with technology than he was, but she was still well behind everyone else in the village.

After the new year, he would begin teaching them all how to survive in his world. They would, he was sure, thank him later.

* * *

Lorna woke the next morning with a raging case of indigestion, and a mouth that tasted like rotted cotton. Lovely. Her clock read just shy of five a.m., but she might as well get up.

Thranduil, she found, was seated beside her, and she suspected he hadn't slept last night. She could only thank God the twins hadn't inherited that weird stamina, or she'd never get any sleep herself.

"Happy Christmas," she said, yawning, and sat up to kiss his cheek. "Are the twins awake?"

"Not yet. You have time to make tea." He was and remained baffled by the drink – by caffeine in general. Apparently, it didn't affect Elves.

"If we're to deal with all four children, I'll need it," she said, crawling over him and off the bed. "Mind you, the youngest still believe in Father Christmas, so play along."

"Who or what is Father Christmas?"

"A story," Lorna said, stuffing her feet into her slippers. "He's a big fat man who travels around the world in a flying sleigh on Christmas Eve, giving presents to good children. They figure out otherwise eventually, but it's meant to make Christmas a bit magical."

"You _lie_ to them?" he asked.

"I suppose that's one way to put it, but it's a bit harsh. We live in a world without magic, Thranduil," she said, pulling on her heavy flannel dressing-gown. "That doesn't mean our children have to know that right off. I never had a chance to believe in Father Christmas."

She left him that to chew on as she went to the bathroom to brush her teeth. Honestly, her youth hadn't left her feeling as deprived as everyone seemed to think it ought to. Her adolescence had been happy enough, in an odd, unorthodox way. That did not, however, mean she wanted her children growing up that way.

The pipes groaned when she turned the tap all the way on, and she winced. They'd left the faucets dripping day and night to keep the pipes from freezing, but if this cold didn't let up soon, they might burst anyway. _That_ was something she didn't want to contemplate.

She took care of her morning ablutions in a hurry, and when she returned to her room, she found Thranduil had the twins up and changed. Lorna didn't know why she'd been so surprised he knew how to change a diaper – he'd had a kid already, after all – but she was. He'd definitely been better than she was, at first. Even Mairead had been impressed.

"Will anyone be awake yet?" he asked, handing her Saoirse.

"With four kids in the house? They've probably been up an hour already," she said. "They can watch the twins for something to do, until everyone else gets up."

They crept down the stairs – Thranduil silent, and Lorna as quiet as she could be – and found the tree aglow, though the rest of the lights were off. All four children were indeed seated in front of it, shaking various presents. They all gave a guilty start when they realized they'd been caught.

"I won't tell if you won't," Lorna said, setting Saoirse on the floor and untangling her tubes. "Watch these two, will you? I need tea and Pepto or I'll sick up all over everything."

"Gross, Aunt Lorna," Shannon said, wrinkling her nose. "Go. Run. Ew." She was looking a bit pale herself; maybe even half a drink had been a bit much for her.

"No sicking up on my children," Lorna ordered, padding into the kitchen, slippers shuffling. She still boggled a little at how very _domestic_ her life was. She lived in a proper house, with a proper kitchen, boiling water for tea on a stove that wasn't portable and run on bottled gas. There were times she still felt like her life was about as real as a TV show.

Thranduil only made it even more surreal. He was so tall that his head nearly brushed the ceiling, his rich tunic entirely out-of-place against the oak cabinets and stainless-steel refrigerator. Though he'd seen the stove used several times, he remained visibly interested in it – visibly for him, anyway. As with so many things, it was his eyebrows that gave him away; he seemed to have dozens of different expressions communicated almost solely through them. In this case, they rose ever so slightly, a certain sharpness in his eyes.

"You really want natural gas in your place, don't you?" she asked, pushing the button and watching him watch the flames spring up.

"I cannot imagine it would be _that_ difficult to acquire," he said, filling the kettle for her. Lorna had no idea how one installed gas, or even where it came from, so she could neither confirm nor deny.

She downed some Pepto Bismol, grimacing a little at the chalky taste, and rinsed her mouth out with vodka. Mairead didn't need to know.

Her eyes traveled to the doorway, and she smirked, grabbing Thranduil's hand. She also grabbed a chair, dragging it and him under the little sprig of mistletoe hanging from the lintel.

"Christmas tradition," she said, clambering up onto the chair, and kissed him.

She felt him smile as he wrapped his arms around her, and she twined her fingers into the pale, silky fall of his hair. While she was still determined that here not be any further bedroom shenanigans until they were married, mistletoe was mistletoe.

Granted, that determination was a little harder to maintain when he licked his way into her mouth, deepening the kiss. The spicy-rich taste of him was downright addictive, and she carded her hands through his hair, drinking him in.

" _Ew!_ Get a room, you two!"

Little Kevin's voice made her wince, but his exaggerated gagging made her burst out laughing, her forehead pressed against Thranduil's shoulder.

"A room not in this house!" Shannon called from the lounge. "You're lucky it wasn't Mam that caught you."

"Your mother," Gran said, descending the stairs, "is too much'v a prude for her own good. She shouldn't've hung that mistletoe if she didn't intend for it to get used."

Lorna had a feeling Thranduil was rather offended by the insinuation that he'd try anything skeevy in a semi-public area. Sure enough, when she raised her head, she saw that the eyebrows had taken on Expression Number Forty-Seven – slightly pinched annoyance.

"Leave it," she said quietly. "It's just Edain being Edain."

The eyebrows shifted to Expression Eight – exasperated amusement. She still hadn't figured out how he could convey so much with so little.

"Out, the lot'v you," Gran said. "I'll not trust any'v you near the stove. And no shaking your presents."

Well, it was _much_ too late for that. Then again, Gran probably knew it.

* * *

Christmas morning was the one day of the year that Mairead allowed food into the lounge. After such a large meal the night before, breakfast was mostly just fresh rolls, jam, and whatever they had to drink.

She always let the kids tear into their first presents all at once, so they could be patient and take it in turns later. Four long boxes had appeared beside the tree overnight, wrapped in velvet rather than paper, but Lord Thranduil forbade the kids to open them just yet.

"Mistress Mairead, I am giving you your gift first, so that you will not attempt to murder me when you see theirs," he said, handing her a box of beautifully carved wood as soon as she'd sat down.

"Why don't I like the sound'v that?" she asked, running her fingers over it. It had been sanded silky-smooth.

"You will find out, in time. Open it."

Open it she did, fumbling with the catch a little, and withdrew a large blanket of heavy velvet, the color shifting through shades of blue and green when she held it up to the light. It was easily the softest material she had ever felt, smelling of oak and sunshine.

"It is a bedcover," he said, "though you could use it as some other thing, if you chose. It would keep you warm even if you were to sleep outside tonight."

"Where did you get it?" she asked, resisting the urge to rube her face on it like a cat. "It's bloody _gorgeous_."

"It belonged to my mother," he said, a trace of amusement in his tone. "It is nearly ten thousand years old."

She stared at him, wide-eyed. "But it feels new." Ten thousand years old? _Ten thousand?_ There were precious few museums who could boast anything like that.

He smirked a little. "As I told Lorna, when one lives forever, the things one makes must be made to endure."

She ran her hands over it again, floored. This was a thing that pretty much pre-dated human civilization, and he had just _given_ it to her.

Whatever he'd got the kids had to be bad indeed.

"Hold that, while your children open their gifts," he ordered, as if reading her mind.

Naturally, the four of them dove for the boxes, which were each of a different length. They were unwrapped with surprising care, and when they were opened, they revealed –

" _Swords?_ " Mairead demanded. "You've given my children _swords_?"

"Blunt, for now," Lord Thranduil said serenely. "It will be a decade or more before they might earn their edges."

"Are you gonna teach us?" little Andrew asked. At six years old, Mairead didn't want him anywhere _near_ a sword.

"Yes," Lord Thranduil said. "It has been a very long time since I had anyone to teach."

Damn him, he had to play the loneliness card, even if he hadn't done it on purpose. "You and I are going to have _words_ later," she said. "You lot, they stay in the boxes or I'm taking them away."

"But _Mam_ –"

"I will take you all outside later," Lord Thranduil said. "Listen to your mother. Mistress Bridie," he added, "your gift is in your cottage."

"I thought you were done breaking and entering," Lorna said.

"It hardly counts as 'breaking' if the door is unlocked," he said blandly. "Your gift is likewise absent. You will have to come to my home to receive it."

"Should I be worried?"

"Not unduly," he said. "At least, I do not think so."

"That doesn't make me feel any better," she muttered.

"I promise that it will not eat you." He looked at the children. "Shannon, bring me your weapon."

The girl looked at Mairead, who sighed. "Go on, then."

Shannon held the sword very carefully. It wasn't short, but it wasn't overly long, either, as bright and shining as if it were brand new, with a slight curve to one end of the blade.

"This was the first of my son's practice swords," he said. "You will all use it, in time. Do not think of it as an object, but as part of yourself."

"You have a son?" she asked, wide-eyed. "Another son?"

"Legolas," he said calmly, betraying no emotion. "He sailed to Valinor, long ago."

Not for nothing was Mairead mother to four children – she knew a lie when she heard one, even from someone as difficult to read as Lord Thranduil. It was all in the eyes – specifically, how they averted at the last second. But if this Legolas had not sailed (whatever the hell that even meant), he wasn't here, either –

Oh, God.

Well, now she _really_ couldn't get mad about the swords. She didn't know why it had never occurred to her that he'd probably had a family before, but it hadn't. _Why_ did this damn man – Elf – have to keep making her heart break for him?

"How long did it take him to get good at it?" Shannon asked.

He smiled a little – a very little. "To gain Elven proficiency would take more years than you will live," he said. "But I can teach you to be as good as any Edain who ever was."

Mairead knew she should probably be worried by the light that entered her daughter's eyes.

* * *

Lorna had to explain the concept of a scrapbook, even as she snapped away with her mobile's camera. (It had a _camera_. She'd known such things existed, but she'd never thought she'd actually have one.)

"I wish the Eldar made such things," Thranduil said, running his fingers over the ultrasound. "Our memories do not fade, but I had never thought to keep all the objects of memory in anything but a box."

She couldn't decide if such a memory was a blessing or a curse. She'd deliberately forgot a great deal of her childhood; the thought of being unable to do that was kind of horrifying. He really was right – in some ways, humans really did have an advantage over Elves.

"Well, it'll fill up fast enough," she said, "and then we just get another, and another. Although they definitely won't last a thousand years, let alone ten."

"I still don't understand how that can work," Kevin said. "Even synthetic fabrics would break down long before then, and I doubt you had those."

"We had ways," Thranduil said. "Much of what we used no longer exists, but I have a kingdom filled with things that others ought to get something from."

Lorna made a mental note to ask if any Elves could be talked into coming back – if there was even a way to reach them. The more she heard of Elves, the more she realized he needed company that wasn't going to die on him in a heartbeat. And if he didn't know how to get ahold of them, maybe this DMA people would. If there really was that much stuff lying around, there was no way even the entire village would be able to give all of it a home, and there was something weirdly forlorn about the thought of it just sitting around another few thousand years.

Unfortunately, she was almost pathologically incapable of being overly affectionate in front of her family, so she had to settle for giving his forearm a gentle, comforting squeeze.

"Once we're good with these, we can protect everyone in a zombie apocalypse," Shannon said, carefully putting the sword back in the box.

Mairead groaned. "Lorna, I ought to kill you for putting that idea in their heads," she said.

"I don't see why," Lorna retorted. "If you're prepared for a zombie apocalypse, you're prepared for anything."

"Can one ever _truly_ be prepared for a zombie apocalypse?" Thranduil asked, entirely deadpan.

"Stop helping, and open your present," Mairead ordered, pointing to a large red box, topped with a wad of curly ribbon the size of the twins' heads.

Niamh brought it to him, and he inspected the ribbon before straight-up snapping it, opening the paper far too neatly.

When he opened the box, he found a black wool sweater, a pair of dark jeans, and a white button-down shirt, all neatly folded. A pair of heavy boots sat at the bottom.

"I know you've no plans to leave the village again, but on the off chance you have to, you'd best blend in," Mairead said. "As much as you can, anyway."

"These look as though they will fit suspiciously well," he said, looking down at Lorna.

"I took your measurements while you were asleep," she said. "Which was bloody hard, since you hardly ever _do_ sleep."

He arched an eyebrow. "You know, Dilthen Ettelëa, you so often call me creepy, and yet you do something like that."

"It was for the greater good," she said, attempting innocence.

"The greater good," he echoed, right on cue. _Hot Fuzz_ had been part of his cinematic education.

"You're both ridiculous," Mairead said. "All right, you lot, pass out the rest'v the presents. Once we've disemboweled them, I've got to start dinner."

What followed was a flurry of torn wrapping paper, accompanied by delighted shrieks from the kids (and one brief crying jag, when Shannon accidentally whacked Niamh with her cast). Lorna had ordered them all sorts of _Doctor Who_ gear off Amazon, and knitted each a Fourth Doctor scarf.

Kevin got a new electric drill; Mairead, a thick fluffy bathrobe of deep green velour. She'd made Gran a new shawl out of soft red cashmere yarn, and spent more on it than she probably ought to have.

It was, on the whole, downright surreal. Gran had made her little baby booties, for when the twins were actually big enough to wear them, and the kids, to her delight, had made them each an _X-Files_ onesie. Mairead had got her some fancy shampoo, reasoning that if she wasn't going to cut her hair, she might as well maintain it better.

Yes, it was strange, and bemusing, and very loud – and possibly the simplest, sweetest experience she'd ever had. Yeah, she might be in hiding from the law, but she had her family, all of them, in a nice snug house in a sleepy village where everybody knew everybody else. Never, ever would she have thought she'd feel so very secure, and so very sure of her place in the world.

She only prayed it would last.

* * *

Of course it won't, Lorna, because I am a cruel writer – though I won't be as mean to any of you as I am in _Auth uin i Ettelëai_. That one has wound up so very much darker than I ever planned (but then, that usually happens when I throw Sharley into the mix. Any mix.)

Title means "Christmas Day" in Irish. As always, your reviews fill me with light and love and mental champagne bubbles.

hikaru shinyi: I do in fact have two others, unconnected but in the same general universe: _Ettelëa_ and _Auth uin i Ettelëai_.


	18. Pleananna agus Comharthaí Droch

In which Lorna gets her present, Thranduil is both sorrowful and a little creepy, and more outsiders hit Lasgaelen (and Lasgaelen hits back. Hard.)

* * *

New Year's came upon them, silent as a ghost, the snow still showing no signs of thawing. Not until New Year's Eve would Thranduil take Lorna into the forest for her present.

"It better not involve anything kinky," Mairead warned, brandishing a ladle at him. No blunt cooking implement should look quite so menacing.

"Why are you so convinced I will seduce Lorna the first moment I am granted the opportunity?" he asked, more than a little insulted.

The look Mairead leveled at him was extremely unimpressed. "It's what you did the day you met," she said flatly.

She had a point, but _still_. "Even if Lorna and I wished to, it will be weeks yet before the healer would allow it. Though I fail to see how it is your concern anyway."

"Ignore her," Lorna said, shrugging on her coat. "She seems to have forgot the fact that I'm a bloody grown woman who can make my own damn choices."

"Last time you made your own choices, you got knocked up," Mairead said.

Lorna rolled her eyes, sitting on a kitchen chair so she could jam her feet in her boots. "Can you not trust me? Christ, one bad decision and I'll never live it down."

Thranduil was somewhat disturbed that she would call their time together a _bad decision_ , but he knew she didn't mean anything ill by it. The longer he spent around her, the more he realized that she and tact were not at all well acquainted. She had probably offended a great many people throughout her life, and not always had any idea.

"Oh, away with you," Mairead said, rolling her eyes.

* * *

Out Lorna and Thranduil went, into the thin, wintry sunlight. The frigid air had warmed enough that she no longer feared for the plumbing, though it had burst in the Market and several houses in the village.

She did still feel a bit stupid, having to be carried over the glittering snow like a bloody infant, but it would still be a while yet before her damn incision healed. At least she'd be back in something resembling shape by spring, and could get back to work a few days a week. Big Jamie said she could bring the twins with her, since everyone would want to be seeing them anyway.

The thought made her wonder something. "What did you do all day, before we met? You didn't go out where anyone could see you, but I can't imagine you wanting to stay underground all the time, either." And if he really had just wandered those beautiful halls all alone, he would have gone mad long ago.

"I remembered," he said, as they entered the trees. Here a path had been beaten into the snow, so here he set her down. "The memories of the Eldar are not like those of your people. We can inhabit them as thoroughly as we did when we made them. I have spent a very great deal of time in my own mind."

That was fucking tragic, though at least she didn't say so to his face. He probably wouldn't see it that way at all, but any human would. What she said instead was, "The lot'v us will have to make sure you get new memories worth visiting."

"You already have," he said, linking his arm through hers, drawing her close. There was something subtly, inexplicably possessive in the action, and unease stirred at the back of her mind. Lorna loved Thranduil, even if she wasn't properly _in_ love with him just yet, but she definitely didn't like that facet of him. At least it _was_ subtle, and for now she'd chalk it up to cultural differences that would just have to be un-learned. Their relationship, fast though it had progressed, was still so new – they still had much to learn about each other, which was why that wedding dress was going to sit in her closet a while yet. Doubtless there were things about her that were going to rub him the wrong way, if they hadn't already started.

"So what exactly is this surprise?" she asked. "You've kept me in bloody suspense long enough."

"I must admit that I had help with it," he said. "Some of it I simply did not know how to do myself."

She wondered if she ought to be disturbed by that. Probably not, or so she hoped.

Her eyes traveled up to the tree-canopy, the bare branches an uneven lattice against the impossible blue of the sky. The forest was still largely alien to her, yet strangely, it didn't _feel_ that way. Somehow, it felt more natural than Dublin had, and she'd lived in Dublin most of her life. Oh, she wouldn't want to live here full-time – she was enjoying the modern world too much for that – but there was peace to be found here of a sort she had never before known.

Peace, and a strange, alien pain, though she suspected that was Thranduil projecting. She didn't want to think about what life must still be like for him, in spite of his newly-acquired human family.

 _Saudade_ , she thought, the snow crunching under her boots. In prison, she'd had a lot of time to do a lot of reading, and one of the things she'd run across was the Portuguese word _saudade_ , which roughly translated to 'to miss something so much it hurts'. Thranduil probably still had saudade, as the saying went, for the entirety of his civilization.

They walked in companionable silence, though the ache in her incision grew. She was glad enough when they reached their destination – glad, and surprised.

In a glade she'd never seen before, there now stood a little cottage. This was not something that had been constructed overnight, either; the walls were river-rock, the roof properly shingled, with a large window on either side of the front door. It looked, at least from the outside, rather like Gran's cottage.

Somebody had shoveled off the font step, and she stomped the snow off her boots before she opened the door – heavy, hand-hewn oak, with a latch rather than a knob, the metal cold even through her gloves.

The interior was cozy and warm, a fire burning low in the small fireplace on the north wall. The floor was stone, softened with an assortment of rugs, and a large day-bed, upholstered in dark velvet, sat before the fireplace. Facing it was, of all things, a huge TV, along with a DVD player, stereo, and bookshelf full of DVDs.

" _When_ did you manage this?" Lorna asked, a little helplessly.

"I began the cottage five months ago," Thranduil said, shutting the door behind them. "Several of the villagers have helped me. There is a generator outside – you can continue my education without the interference of your sister, and the twins can join us in peace."

"And here I just made you a scrapbook," she said, shaking her head.

"You carried the twins for six months, and then had them cut out of your abdomen," he said. "You have done more than enough work already."

Well, when he put it _that_ way, she supposed he had a point.

"I have given you much that you did not ask for, Dilthen Ettelëa," he said. "I count myself fortunate that you did not skin me, when first I arrived in the pub."

"I'll admit, it did occur to me a few times while I was sicking up everything I tried to eat," she said, poking him in the chest. " _And_ I spent the first fortnight after I knew about them in constant terror I'd miscarry, since they were only half human."

"Why did you not seek me out, if you were worried?" he asked, looking incredibly disturbed.

Honestly, Lorna wasn't quite sure. "It never really occurred to me," she said, sitting on the daybed. The mattress was wonderfully fat and squashy, and smelled faintly like fir. "Even if it had, I wouldn't've figured you'd know much about human pregnancy. I probably would've hunted you down sooner or later, though. I'm glad you came and found me first."

"Of course I did. Even if you'd skinned me, I would have had a chance to see if my present succeeded," Thranduil said, with a truly maddening smirk.

She thwacked him on the arm. "Go fire up the generator," she said, "and I'll dig up a movie. Have we got _Dead Snow_ on that shelf?"

"I am not certain, nor am I sure I want to ask," he said dryly.

"It's a Norwegian zombie movie. Somebody who doesn't speak English very well made a fan dub, and it's _hilarious_."

Thranduil shook his head. "Only you, Dilthen Ettelëa," he said. "Only you."

* * *

The air warmed incrementally, day by day, and the snow softened, turning into a soupy, slushy mess – but at least it didn't melt all at once. One flood was enough.

The last few weeks had been a financial disaster for much of Ireland. Too many people had missed too much work during the worst of the storms, and Lasgaelen wasn't the only place to suffer massive power cuts. Lorna was glad the village was well out of it, and that they'd had a place to go and wait the nasty parts out in comfort.

The twins grew at a rage that she found downright alarming, but Thranduil told her it would actually be considered slow for Elf children, who were able to run and sing by the time they were a year old. Their dominant human half seemed to be hobbling that drastically, but it was still unsettlingly fast for humans. While it didn't look likely that they'd be walking any time soon, they were, at a little over a month old, already trying to crawl. It wasn't _working_ – they mostly only succeeded in dragging themselves around a bit – but the fact that they were doing it at all made her nervous. They could sit up, if they had help, and would take the world in with big green eyes that were still far too knowing for such young children.

Lorna grieved it a little. Kids were only kids once; she didn't want them to grow up too soon. Thranduil didn't know just how this would continue progressing, but he did assure her that they wouldn't be adults overnight. Once they reached the mobile stage, they'd probably slow down, and age at roughly the same rate as fully human children.

"Look at it this way," he said, "they will need diapers for far less time than an Edain child."

"Okay, _that_ I could happily live with," she said, "but what'll we do when they're school age?" Lasgaelen was too small to support a school of its own; most of the kids went to schools in Kildare, which wouldn't exactly be safe for the twins.

"We will teach them ourselves," he said, picking up Saoirse. The sun shone bright and warm through the window in Lorna's room, and the twins were happily playing in it. "The Eldar had nothing like your schools – we learned from our parents, or from tutors."

Lorna grimaced. "I'm the wrong person to be doing that." She'd left school without even her Junior Certificate, and though she'd done a lot of reading in prison, it was hardly a comprehensive education. Her knowledge of history was spotty, and in maths she couldn't do anything beyond basic division. As for science, or Irish government, she was entirely at sea. Not that the twins would need to _know_ about the Irish government, but still. It was the principle of the thing. "I was pants at school, and I hated it anyway."

"All the more reason not to send them to one," Thranduil said. "I still know little of your world. The four of us will simply have to learn together."

Somehow, she wasn't sure that would end terribly well. "Well, now I'm recovered and we've got time, I've got to start teaching you to read English," she said. "It'll make using the Internet a lot easier to use. You can get as addicted to YouTube as I am."

His expression at that statement made her burst out laughing.

* * *

While the village slowly began setting itself to rights, Thranduil spent the days he was not with his family doing work of his own.

He had little doubt that the Edain would lapse back into their comfortable lives, forgetting his unease about the future. That was not something he – or they – could afford, but he would not tax them with it yet. If and when there came a time they would have to live in his halls permanently, for however long, all must be made ready.

There was far more than enough space, but the halls had been all but frozen in time for centuries, a monument to a civilization now lost. The hundreds of chambers and dwellings within them had been shut up and abandoned, even by him, their contents not disturbed since their owners either sailed or perished. Some of them would need to be opened again, and yet doing so was far more painful than he would have thought.

Thranduil had long since grown used to the silence and emptiness of his home, of being the only corporeal being to wander its paths and bridges. The Lingerers paid him no mind, and he gave them little heed. His life, however, had been largely routine, confined to a few select places, and now that he wandered the long-disused corridors, old grief stabbed at him.

This wing had once belonged to various nobles, their quarters as large as his own. Wood-Elves might not have mingled a great deal with outsiders, but they were very social among themselves, and there had always been people coming and going, the air alive with chatter and music. Now there was only silence, the large oak doors shut.

The Edain of Lasgaelen were unused to real luxury, and such accommodations might make living underground easier for them. The rooms were so vast that a lack of windows might not bother them so much as it would in a smaller apartment. They would wish to bring their own things, so as to make the halls feel less alien, and the last imprints of those who had once dwelt here would be erased.

The door he opened now led to the chambers of Lady Silwen and Lord Arphenion. Both had been his counselors, and a rather odd match; she had been ruthless, intelligent, and fiercely loyal, while her husband was more frivolous and easily distracted. Still, they had been happy, and that happiness had imbued itself into the very walls.

No dust accumulated in his halls; when he lit the lanterns, the room still looked as though they had only just left. Silwen had favored reds and golds, and the sitting-room was decked out in a dozen shades of autumn. Two settees and an assortment of armchairs were clustered around the empty fireplace, upholstered in burgundy velvet, surrounding a low oak table.

Silwen had been a collector of trinkets, especially things wrought of silver, and they still gleamed where sat on mantel and shelves, untarnished by the centuries. The faintest ghost of rosewater lingered in the air, undisturbed by the passage of time.

The pair would not, he was sure, mind anyone moving in; they had taken all that had truly meant anything with them to Valinor. Doubtless she had given their dwelling in Aman the same treatment.

Thranduil ran his fingers over the mantelpiece, the wood silky-smooth beneath them. _Why_ had he lingered so long? Why did the thought of sailing fill him with such horror? _Something_ had kept him here all this time, and he still didn't know what. His lands had diminished – _he_ had diminished – yet he could not leave, for all there had been, until recently, nothing to stay for.

He still didn't know why he'd been so very drawn to Lorna – why he really answered her unwitting summons that day in the woods. She was a stranger, yes, and a grieving one, and her eyes belonged nowhere near a human face, but was more than that. Something in her had called to him, and still called, and he doubted she was any more aware of it than he was.

They would both, he was sure, discover it in time. He was rapidly discovering that there was no such thing as an ordinary Edain – at least, not in Lasgaelen – but there was something about her that was, while not precisely extraordinary, different in no way he could define. It had to be why her fëa was brighter, why it shone with such brilliance.

He was still glad, in a sense, glad that she was unwilling yet to marry him on her terms; if she was ever to do it, he wanted her to be sure. He truly had given her much she had not asked for, and he really was lucky she'd wanted anything to do with him later. Perhaps she would never wish to wed him by the standards of her people, but even if she didn't, he would not be parted from her. She was his now, and he was hers, whether or not she saw it that way.

But he couldn't think on it now – he had to make accommodation for several Edain families that had more children than most Eldar. The elder were simply going to need their own quarters. By the time whatever was to happen actually occurred, they might well be grown anyway.

A certain dark part of him looked forward to it. Once the villagers had called home all their family who lived abroad, his halls would be alive again. They could wait in here while whatever cataclysm befell the world worked itself out – and, if it took a generation or two, they might not wish to leave the only life they ever knew even when it was over. His people would remain _his_ people, for however long this world lasted.

He hoped that would prove the case. Solitude had suited Thranduil for hundreds of years, but he never wanted to be alone again.

* * *

The temperature warmed enough that Lorna no longer feared taking the twins out of the house, so Mairead drove her and them to town. She was beginning to go stir-crazy, and she had a hazy idea that the twins ought to be exposed to different environments.

Seeing the village so buried in snow was still strange, even if it _had_ turned to slush in the road. The pavements were all shoveled, so Mairead had no trouble manhandling the two baby-carriers into the pub; unfortunately, Lorna still wasn't allowed to lift anything heavier than five pounds, so she couldn't haul them around herself.

The pub was every bit as crowded as she'd expected, but the atmosphere was strangely tense, so much so that she almost turned right around and left. The lights were always relatively low, but now it was downright dim, the usual hum and chatter almost entirely absent. The tables, for some reason, had been shoved aside, leaving a lopsided clear space at the center of the room, and a number of the shelves behind the bar were in total disarray, bottles knocked out of place or missing altogether. That wasn't at all like Big Jamie, who was one of the more meticulous people Lorna knew.

"What in bloody hell is this?" Mairead muttered. For all she was the Responsible One, she was insatiably curious, and even worse than Lorna at letting things alone.

"I don't know, but I don't like it," Lorna said. "Stick the twins back in the car, will you? It's warm enough that they'll be all right for a few minutes."

Stick them back Mairead did, locking the doors and drawing herself up to her full, rather impressive height. There was something weirdly combative in her stance, which baffled Lorna, for her sister was not, unless she was _really_ angry, a combative person, and there was as yet nothing to actually anger her. Yes, the air of unease was downright palpable, but any number of things could have caused it.

Dai, his face red from cold, drink, or both, sat nearest the door, and turned to them when they entered. "You might want to get Lord Thranduil," he said quietly. "We've got a problem. Four'v them, actually." The skin around his left eye was swollen, as though someone had thrown a punch at him – Lorna had no doubt he'd have a fantastic bruise by tomorrow morning. Unlike Mick and Alec, Dai wasn't the sort to pick a fight; he was an apathetic drunk, not a belligerent one, and more likely to evacuate in the event of a brawl. He had a large mug of beer in front of him, but it seemed he'd barely touched it, which was also bloody weird.

"What the hell does _that_ mean?" Mairead demanded, before Lorna could say a thing.

"It means we've got visitors we don't want," Siobhan said, from the other side of the door. Her blonde hair was half out of her ponytail, her knuckles scraped raw and red. "Now that the roads're clear, some eejit's sent more people from Dublin. Either Lord Thranduil's got to do his mind voodoo again, or we've got to lock them up somewhere." She took a delicate sip of beer, then belched.

Lorna had known they hadn't seen the end of _that_ nonsense, but she'd hoped they'd have more time. _Dammit_. "Where are they now?" she asked, not certain she wanted to know the answer.

"Tied up in Big Jamie's office," Mick said. His words were a bit muffled by the wad of red-stained napkins he held to his lower lip. "Bastards didn't go down easy, I'll tell you that."

Mairead groaned, but Lorna burst out laughing before she could help it. She wished she'd been here to see _that_ brawl – sure, cops had all sorts of hand-to-hand training, but they'd been up against a number of drunks who could get damned violent when they wanted to. It was only a wonder they hadn't smashed the pub apart. How the hell they'd fit four adults in that tiny office, she didn't know, but she rather wanted to see it.

"With all this snow, Dublin's got to be a bloody mess," she said, stealing a sip of Dai's untouched beer. "I can't believe they'd spare four policemen all this way over a _stolen ambulance_. Even knocking out that poor bugger with the door shouldn't be enough for them to devote that many cops to a manhunt."

Dai shifted uneasily in his seat. "They're not cops," he said. "We don't know _what_ they are, but they're not cops. If this wasn't, you know, the real world, I'd think they were Men in Black, without the black. They were asking a lot'v questions about things they shouldn't know about – not Lord Thranduil, but about the rest'v us. And they were really bloody pushy when they asked where we'd all been during the worst'v the snow. We tied them up because we didn't know what else to do."

Now it was Lorna's turn to groan. She really didn't like the thought of Thranduil playing hob with anyone else's head – especially after what had happened to the last two – but they couldn't just be let go. Just how good was he at planting false memories? If they all left here thinking they had actual answers, maybe they'd not come back. "I'll go get him," she sighed. "But then I want to talk those fuckers myself."

" _I'll_ go get him," Mairead said. "You still can't walk through all that snow on your own, if you actually want your incision to heal properly. I'll take the twins home while I'm at it – Shannon can look after them."

That sounded like the best idea. Even if all their prisoners were tied up, she'd rather they not have a chance to even see the twins. "I'll see the pair'v you soon," Lorna said, heading for the office door. She needed to know just what the hell these people were even looking for, and she'd rather Thranduil not have to go digging through their heads like a kid after a cereal prize to find out.

* * *

Hehehe, of course their idyllic days couldn't last. They are in fact under the scrutiny of more than just the Dublin police department now, and their unwelcome guests will not be nearly as easy to get rid of.

Title means "Plans and Bad Signs" in Irish. As ever, your reviews sustain my brain.


	19. Suaitheadh

In which the four invaders regret their life choices, Thranduil creeps out _everyone_ , and they all realize they don't have many options.

* * *

When Lorna saw what Big Jamie's office contained, it was all she could do not to laugh, in spite of the trouble they were all in.

Three men and a woman were all tied to chairs, jammed so close together no one could hope to walk between them, the teetering piles of paperwork on the desk threatening to collapse on them at any moment. The men looked so alike it was downright creepy – they were all in their early forties or so, fit and dark-haired, their facial features unsettlingly uniform. The woman looked a little older, maybe in her early fifties, her auburn hair littered here and there with grey. Her face almost looked too symmetrical to be real – or would have, if not for her swollen jaw. Siobhan must have been the one to lamp her out, since none of the men would have done it.

Lorna wondered if they had any idea what they'd walked into. All of them wore suits in varying shades of grey, the sort of posh thing you only saw on lawyers on TV, though they couldn't exactly be called immaculate at the moment: whatever brawl had gone on in the bar had rumpled them considerably, and one of the men had a streak of what had to be peanut dust down the left side of his coat, and a few errant nuts in his hair. God did she wish she'd been around for _that_.

"You shouldn't've come," she said, squeezing in and easing the door shut behind her. "Why _are_ you here? Unless that ambulance is secretly a TARDIS or something, it's nowhere near important enough to drag out people who dress like you."

"You know why we're here, Lorna Donovan," one of the would-be triplets said. His accent wasn't Irish, but English, and she wondered what he was doing so far from home. Somehow, she wasn't surprised he knew her name.

"I _really_ don't," she said, and it was true; she had no idea what they thought they were looking for. "There's nothing in Lasgaelen for the likes of you."

"Someone in this village can manipulate human memory," the woman said flatly, her expression so bland it had to be cultivated on purpose. "We want a word with them." _She_ at least sounded Irish, even if she had to have come from the North.

Yeah, that wouldn't be happening even if it wasn't Thranduil involved. Lorna had, by now, seen damn near all the _X-Men_ movies; she had a pretty good idea of what would happen even to a human with that kind of power. "You'll get one," she said, leaning back against the door, "for all the good it'll do you. You do realize how stupid coming after someone who can theoretically _wipe your memory_ is, right?"

They said nothing, and her eyes narrowed. It _was_ stupid, blatantly so, and she doubted anyone who dressed like this ever made such obvious mistakes. Was one – or all – of them wearing a wire or something? Were her words being recorded, or broadcasted back to someone whose memory couldn't be tampered with?

Her eyes narrowed, and she smirked – a distinctly Thranduil-type smirk. She was about to make four people very, very uncomfortable. Opening the door, she stuck her head out. "Siobhan!" she called. "Help me strip this lot. If they've got bugs or wires or whatever, we're getting rid'v them."

Siobhan's rusty laugh carried all the way through the pub. "Not a request I get every day. Give me a minute."

Lorna looked back at the quartet. While the lot of them would probably be able to clean out a poker tournament, they all looked faintly unsettled. "Welcome to Lasgaelen," she said. "I hope you've not worn knickers you'll be ashamed'v."

* * *

At this point, Thranduil would not be averse to an earthquake, or a flood, or _something_ that would keep these unwelcome intruders away from Lasgaelen.

He had been on his way to Lorna's house when a livid Mairead intercepted him. Two high spots of color stood on her cheeks, though he wasn't certain if they were from cold or sheer rage. _His_ temper certainly boiled when she explained herself.

"They're not like the cops," she said. "Everyone in the pub fears they're something worse. Those bloody Americans found out about you somehow – if they did, others could, too."

 _That_ was not a thought he needed. Clearly, wiping memories was not enough, and Lorna was right; if he did it to many times, someone was going to notice. It sounded as though they had already.

He followed Mairead to her vehicle, wishing he had Galadriel's mental precision. _She_ could have constructed a person entirely new memories, but Thranduil doubted that was within his power.

Really, he wished he could just take this entire village underground and stay there.

Mairead's driving wasn't quite as bad as it had been on the trip to the hospital, but he was still grateful that it was a short trip into the village. Cars were one aspect of the modern world he would happily do without, and he exited hers as fast as he could, leaving her to trail after him through the pub door. What he saw when he opened it, however, halted him in his tracks.

Lined up in front of the bar were three men and a woman, all tied to chairs, and all, for some reason, stripped to their undergarments. The scent of burning fabric told him what had happened to their clothes; Lorna was merrily stirring the blazing fire with the poker.

"Lorna," he said, pained, "do I _want_ to ask?"

"I had to," she said, poking away. "They might've been recording us. What do we do with them?"

He looked at the little group, all of whom stared back, wide-eyed. "That," he said, "remains to be seen. It depends upon just what they were looking for."

"Nobody's got much out'v them so far," Big Jamie said. "Just a lot'v weird questions and a superiority complex so strong I could bloody _taste_ it."

Thranduil tilted his head to one side, scrutinizing them closely. He knew full well how much he unnerved Edain who were unused to him; if they _had_ somehow known of him before they came here, he could make them regret it without touching their minds at all.

He dragged over a chair and sat facing them, summoning every bit of the imperiousness he had possessed when he'd been a king with an actual kingdom. Once upon a time, he had daunted even other Eldar; these four didn't stand a chance.

"Why are you here?" he asked. "Be warned, I will know if you lie."

They exchanged glances, and he really shouldn't have taken any satisfaction in their pallor, but he couldn't help it.

"We were sent to see if you were real," the man on the left said. To his credit, his voice was quite steady, but sweat had gathered at his temples.

"And what would you have done, had I allowed you to leave with that information?" Thranduil asked, his voice deceptively calm. "Who sent you?"

He wasn't terribly surprised that none of them answered. Doubtless they wished to protect whoever employed them.

"Which of you has led this little…journey?" he asked.

"I did," the man nearest the woman said, swallowing hard. They might have come looking, but it was patently obvious they hadn't expected to _find_ anything. "I was told to see what – if any – information might be had about you, and report back."

He was lying. Thranduil could smell it, even through the funk of fear – it was not a grand lie, but lie it was. "Lorna," he said, not looking away from the man, "why have you burnt all their clothes?"

"Siobhan and I wanted to make sure they didn't have any bugs on them – listening devices," she clarified. "They wouldn't've just come out here unprepared – not if they actually expected to find anything."

"That would have been unwise," he said, with a grim smile. He reached out a hand and touched the man's face, ignoring his flinch. "Be still and this will not hurt."

"Don't," the man said, little more than a whimper.

"Much though I would like to, I will not harm you," Thranduil assured him. "I seek not to wipe your memory, but to read it. Now hold still." The words were a command few could disobey, and this man was not among them.

 _Once again, Thranduil cursed his lack of precision. He had to waste a great deal of time searching through this man's – Connor, his name was Connor Doyle – unremarkable childhood, skimming over what little personal life he had. Not until he discovered the most recent memories – quite by accident – did Thranduil linger._

 _He had by now seen enough television to recognize an office when he saw one. This one was so bland he suspected it was calculated: the carpet, furniture, and even the_ walls _were various shades of flat grey, entirely unadorned._

 _Within the memory, Connor stood facing an oversized desk, empty save for a lamp and a small stack of paper. Behind it sat a woman in a dark grey suit, her short, severely-cut hair a mix of brown and grey. Her hazel eyes were some of the coldest he had ever seen._

 _"If you see him, do not engage," she said. "If he truly is responsible for the policemen, we know what he can do to a human mind. For now, I just want confirmation or denial of his presence."_

 _Connor didn't tell her aloud that he thought she was completely barking. Still, she wouldn't be sending him out on a fool's errand; if she suspected something, she was likely at least partially right. There were whispers of things among senior agents, things that somebody obviously believed in._

 _He would carry out his assignment, mad though it seemed. Even if there wasn't an Elf – an actual bloody_ Elf – _in Lasgaelen, someone there had managed to destroy the minds of two policemen. His pragmatic mind leaned more toward chemical warfare, but either way, he'd find out._

 _"I hope you're sending me with backup," he said. The long drive would be utterly boring by himself._

 _"I am – and you'll have surveillance equipment. Question everyone you can, but don't approach the woods," she added firmly. "Not yet."_

 _Connor knew he shouldn't ask, but he couldn't help it. "How does anyone even know about this supposed Lord Thranduil?"_ And why in God's name would anyone _believe_ in him? _he thought, but knew better than to add. This was the twenty-first bloody century, not the Dark Ages._

 _"My grandfather grew up in Lasgaelen," she said, folding her hands on the desk. "He told us stories about the mysterious Lord Thranduil when we were children. Of course none of us believed them, but recent events have caused me to question that. He would not be the first…unusual…thing I have seen, but any more information is well above your pay grade._

 _That was not at all what Thranduil needed to hear – any of it._

He disengaged from Connor's mind, neither wanting nor needing to see any more. "It is as well you burned their clothes," he said. "Others were in fact listening."

"I fucking knew it," Lorna said, crossing the floor to him. At some point, a number of the villagers had crowded around – as there was no way they could have seen what he was doing, they were likely only there to unnerve their captives. Judging by how profusely the four were sweating, it was working.

"So what do we _do_ with them?" Big Jamie asked. "You going to wipe their memories, too?"

"No," Thranduil said, rising. "It would seem the Edain mind is too fragile for me to be certain I can do something so precise safely. Lorna, your grandmother must call the DMA – with luck, they might have someone who can help. These four will simply have reside in my dungeons until someone arrives." He smirked. "It has been over two thousand years since anyone has graced them."

"More will come," the woman said, her voice unsteady. "When we don't return to report, more will come looking for us."

"They will find nothing," he said, with a haughty tilt of his head.

"They'll find the village," she insisted. "You don't want what imprisoning us would bring down upon you."

The threat, wavering though it was, filled him with a brief but transient impulse to break her neck. "No," he said, "I do not think they will."

"You can stop a squadron, can you?" the man at the end asked, but his tone wasn't as caustic as he no doubt intended.

Thranduil smiled, slow and predatory. "I will not have to," he said. "They will not find the village."

* * *

Lorna would freely admit that that smile of Thranduil's creeped her _right_ the fuck out. While there were times he could seem rather alien, this was something else entirely.

"A word?" she said, grabbing his arm and all but hauling him back into Big Jamie's office. Standing by that raging fire had made her sweat, but it rapidly cooled into unpleasant stickiness in the room's relative chill. "What the hell does _that_ mean?"

The look he gave her unsettled her yet further. It was protective, yes, but the arrogance of his interrogation still lingered in his pale eyes. "Exactly what I said," he told her. "The Eldar are not like Harry Potter, Dilthen Ettelëa, but you know we are not without magic of our own. This land is still _my_ land, and powerful Elves have always had a certain amount of command over their environment. Elrond kept his entire valley hidden."

" _How?_ " The space was too cramped for pacing, but she tried anyway. "Thranduil, this isn't the Middle Ages. Lasgaelen might be out'v the way, but it's on bloody Google Maps – it can't just _disappear_."

Now his look was slightly chilling. "Lorna, once upon a time, this entire _island_ was mine," he said. "If I chose, I could throw it into chaos with illusion, but it will not come to that. The DMA will have a gentler hand in these matters."

Lorna sure as hell hoped so. She didn't think he understood just how unworkable his plan was in the modern world. Lasgaelen might be tiny, but if it just dropped off the map – however the hell that would even work – people were going to notice. He was going to need more of an education to actually grasp that one.

"And if they can't help?" she asked. "What'll you do then?"

"I do not know," he said, with a thoughtfulness that was a little dreadful. "Let us hope we need not find out. You all are my people, Lorna. I will allow no harm to come to you."

On that, she believed him. What she was rapidly beginning to fear was just what he'd to do ensure it. She was hardly going to complain about someone that willing to look after this lot, but he would he really banjax _all of Ireland_ to do it?

Probably not. She _hoped_ not, anyway, because both he and those DMA people had said using large amounts of magic was dangerous – but what if it wouldn't actually take that much to do it? She couldn't imagine that it wouldn't, but it wasn't as though she knew a damn thing about it.

At least this probably wouldn't be too much, or he wouldn't be considering it. Christ, she wished she'd just been able to have the twins here. None of this would be happening if she had.

"Don't take it too far," she said. "This isn't _The X-Files_ – if it gets bad, I'll go live in the forest full-time. The twins're healthy enough that I think it'd be safe, and the government's not going to make anyone disappear for 'questioning' in this day and age." Not people who legally existed, anyway. Nobody could prove it if they walked off with Thranduil, but the rest of them had a paper trail a lifetime long.

"If I must, I will take it as far as I can get away with," Thranduil said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "A kingdom does not last along as mind did without a certain measure of ruthlessness. I was not, however, in the habit of harming innocents. The fact that I could destroy this island does not mean I would do it."

Lorna hoped he meant it. She really, really did.

* * *

While Mairead could see the wisdom in locking these four up, it still made her uneasy.

She wasn't afraid Lord Thranduil would mistreat them – even with what little she knew of him, he didn't seem that sort – but the word 'dungeon' was an uncomfortable one. It conjured unwelcome images of shackles and chains and darkness, even though she couldn't imagine a place as beautiful as those halls have something so nasty. Surely not. Right?

Though Lord Thranduil was not like the stories she'd been raised with, the fact remained that she'd _been_ raised with them. Yes, they seemed to have been born of superstition, but had they been entirely? Was there some measure, however small, of truth in them? She'd seen his expression, and it sent anxiety twisted in her gut.

She hoped they were nothing but idle tales, because if they weren't, there was nothing any of them could do about it.

There was something to be done _now_ , at least – if this lot were to go to the halls, they'd need proper clothes. She didn't think anybody needed to be marching through the snow in their knickers. It was unlikely there was anyone in the whole village who could be that cruel.

 _Poor bastards_ , she thought, heading back out into the cold. Yes, their presence here could be disastrous, but the pub-goers had probably scared them shitless even before she and Lord Thranduil got there.

Oh well. She'd gather up some of her clothes and Kevin's, and they'd just have to wing it from there.

* * *

Though the show was over, the pub-goers lingered anyway, drinking another round while they were at it.

Big Jamie, however, tidied things up on auto-pilot, unable to join in. He knew Lord Thranduil meant well, but clearly neither he nor anyone else had thought of just how many problems his idea would cause.

If he did somehow manage to hide Lasgaelen, there would be no deliveries: once they'd gone through what they had, they'd starve, unless those DMA people could handle that, too. And would that magic, or whatever it was, hide them from electronic surveillance? Somehow, Jamie doubted it. They _had_ to come up with a better plan, but he sure as hell couldn't think of one.

They could, in theory, all move back into the halls, but that still left the food problem – and he doubted there were many who would want to anyway. Oh, it was beautiful in there, but they were all too fond of the comforts of the modern world to want to give them up permanently.

He felt horrible for even thinking it, but he almost wanted some disaster to fall in the world outside – something to distract whoever was so interested in them. A tsunami, or the discovery of some terrorist cell or other. Were his Nan alive, she'd clip him round the ear for even entertaining the idea, but he couldn't help it.

 _Something_ needed to happen, or they were all in a hell of a lot of trouble.

* * *

Pat Kennedy had been bored, but now he was getting nervous.

He'd parked at the far edge of the village, with instructions to wait two hours for his passengers to return. It was approaching the end of the second, and there was no sign of any of them. He'd been told that, in the extremely unlikely event they didn't turn up at the appropriate time, he was to leave them behind. It was not a scenario he'd thought at all likely, and now he was torn.

Leaving his own people in potential danger went against every bit of his training, orders or no orders. This village gave him the creeps – it looked ordinary enough, but there was something about it, something intangible yet twisted, that made the hair on the back of his neck rise.

He couldn't do it. He couldn't just take off – not until he had some idea just what the others were facing. And if he got himself caught…well, at least his conscience wouldn't bother him.

* * *

Be careful what you wish for, Jamie and Thranduil. Be very, very careful.

Fortunately for this quartet, the villagers aren't cruel, and neither is Thranduil, for all he can be so intimidating. The villagers are right, though: he has no idea how many problems cutting Lasgaelen off would create. He's still woefully unprepared for dealing with the modern world.

So, I might be reaching a bit with the "elf rulers can affect their environment" thing, but I don't think I am. Eöl is explicitly said to have trapped Aredhel in Nan Elmoth through magic, and while I don't believe it's ever stated that Elrond kept his valley that way, Rivendell was pretty damn big, and I can't imagine it could have been hidden with anything _but_ magic. Yeah, Mirkwood was a mess, but Mirkwood also had Dol Guldur parked on its doorstep, and Thranduil didn't have an Elven Ring to help him.

Also, I known that Tolkien's Legendarium was meant to take place very, very distantly in Earth's past, but that thought has always made me uncomfortable, because it comes with a healthy dose of Fridge Horror: there is, obviously, no archaeological reference nor record of Gondor, or Rohan, or any of the human kingdoms of Middle-Earth, nor does the continent resemble any modern land mass.

 _Something_ had to have happened between then and now, something so devastating and cataclysmic that it not only re-wrote geography, but so thoroughly wiped out human civilization that we got knocked into the Stone Age, and left no trace at all of what had once been. The only thing in the books to have managed that was the War of Wrath, which was sixty-odd years of Valar against Valar, so _what the hell happened this time_?

Title means "Disturbance" in Irish. As ever, your reviews feed my brain, and let me know if I'm still going in a decent direction or not.


	20. Athrú Ag teacht

In which some of the government goons don't realize their mission is a farce, Bridie has no use for magic _or_ technology, Lorna and Thranduil have a hell of a time not jumping each other's bones, and the DMA gets involved.

* * *

A whole knot of villagers manhandled their quartet of outsiders to Lord Thranduil's halls, and Mairead was relieved to find that the dungeons were nothing at all like she'd feared – indeed, if not for the bars on the cell doors, she wouldn't have known what they were at all.

She still had no clue how Lord Thranduil lit these caves, but even these depths were as bright as everywhere else she'd seen, the pale stone of the walls almost gold. Even down here there were waterfalls, their misty spray chill when they passed one. She didn't feel quite so uncomfortable at the idea of locking this lot down here, though she still hoped they wouldn't be here long – and that this wouldn't get any messier than it already was.

A glance at the others told her that a few shared her unease, Big Jamie among them. Some of the others, though…Dai looked worryingly excited, all but bouncing on the balls of his feet. He was young, and thick as a plank in most respects – he likely had no idea how bad this could get.

Then again, Mairead wasn't sure _she_ did, either. Nor did she want to.

They had to stock up on food while they had a chance – not from the Market, but from outside. She'd take the Explorer to Kildare straightaway, and be back by nightfall – and if the others were smart, they'd do the same.

* * *

Despite his best intentions, Pat didn't manage to rescue anyone. As soon as he saw the group of people marching his fellow agents along Main Street, he legged it for his car – and promptly got hit by an ancient, rusty Dodge Dart.

There was, unfortunately, no snow to cushion his fall, and he crashed to the pavement in a heap. He was dimly aware of something snapping, and far more _urgently_ aware of the pain that bloomed like a burning flower through his left leg.

Mercifully, he hadn't hit his head, but the pain made his vision blur anyway, his jaw clamping down on a scream. He was never going to live this down, ever, but lying in the middle of this frozen road, he couldn't find it in him to care.

"Oh, bloody hell," someone sighed.

When his eyes focused, he found a wizened old woman standing over him, peering down with grey eyes that were equal parts worried and irate. "You stay there while I ring for the doctor, young man. Didn't your mam ever tell you not to play in the street?"

Pat shut his eyes. No, he was _never_ living this down.

* * *

John Monagle wasn't worried yet, but much longer and he would be.

The group's comms had gone dark, but that didn't necessarily mean anything terrible, and it wasn't enough for him to order an extraction. This was supposed to be a low-key operation, one that wouldn't ruffle too many civilian feathers; four people asking questions wouldn't rate the news, but a larger group, especially if things got violent, would.

He chewed a sunflower seed, spitting the shell into the bin beside his desk. Pat wasn't answering his calls, and that _was_ a little worrying. He wasn't meant to leave the car for any reason – but then, he'd have to take a leak sooner or later.

John really didn't want to have to pass this up to his supervisor. If it was a false alarm, he'd never hear the end of it, and really, how much trouble could they get themselves into in a sleepy little village?

No, he'd wait. The five of them were more than capable of taking care of themselves.

* * *

It was edging into afternoon by the time Lorna and Thranduil made it to Gran's. They'd got their prisoners settled, fed, and reassured that nobody was going to torture them or poke them with sticks, and then Mairead and who knew how many others headed for the supermarket in Kildare.

Maybe Lorna was utterly mad, but she was somehow a little excited by this whole idea. Oh, it was probably going to end in utter disaster, but when she'd been a teenager, her entire life had been two steps from disaster, and she'd _loved_ it. She had a safe place to take the twins – no matter what came at the lot of them, nothing would happen to her children. If things got messy aboveground…well, excitement was probably better than terror.

Gran didn't look any too pleased to see them, but she'd likely watched that whole procession into the woods. She let them both into her cozy kitchen with a scowl, and put the kettle on the stove on what seemed like auto-pilot. From the scent of it, she'd been baking break, and Lorna's stomach abruptly reminded her she hadn't eaten since seven-thirty in the morning.

"We need to call those DMA people, Gran," she said, since Thranduil didn't seem to be in any hurry to speak. "I know you've got their number."

"Outsiders," Gran sniffed, dragging over a stool so she could reach the compartment above the fridge. "How many more can we expect?"

Lorna exchanged a glance with Thranduil. "We don't know yet," she said. "We hope – Jesus, Gran!"

The old lady had pulled a double-barrel shot gun out of the compartment, shoving aside a row of very dusty tins to do so. An equally dusty box of shells came next, a box that looked older than Lorna herself.

"Outsiders," Gran repeated, cracking the stock and shoving a shell into each barrel. The snap when she closed it sounded like a harbinger of doom.

"Is that thing even _legal_?" Lorna asked, a little helplessly.

"It was when your grandda had it. Anyone comes sniffing around my place, they'll get both barrels in the arse."

To Lorna's immense surprise, Thranduil sat in a kitchen chair and _laughed_. It was a rich, deep sound, so seldom heard it always surprised her. "Mistress Bridie, I wish I had an army like you," he said. "Your government would flee in terror."

Lorna groaned. "Don't encourage her. Gran, we really do need the phone number."

Gran pulled a tablet out of a counter drawer, slapping it onto the table. "Good luck," she said. "I think you'll need it."

Her phone was actually the rotary sort, which Lorna only had a hazy idea how to use. Unfortunately, she was only marginally more knowledgeable about her mobile, but she worked it out anyway, dialing before she handed it to Thranduil. When it came to talking on the phone, she was utter crap, stumbling over her words. She blamed it on lack of practice, because she wasn't like that otherwise.

There was something a bit _wrong_ about the sight of him with such a modern piece of technology stuck to his ear. She still thought the same about him using her laptop, too.

"You've got to give them your name, and that it's Bridie Monaghan who gave you the number," Gran said, taking the kettle off when it began to sing.

Thranduil did as instructed, and Lorna was almost annoyed that _he_ seemed to have no problem at all on the phone. She helped Gran fix the tea, listening with one ear as he explained their unfortunate situation.

"If there are any of you who can do what I dare not, it would be wisest to send them," he said. "And if you have anyone in the Irish government who can deal with this state of affairs, that would also be for the best." He paused, listening. "I do not know. If we have enough provisions, we can wait it out in my halls, but the villagers were not want to stay there indefinitely. Their world is too different from mine. Should they wish it, they might need to be re-located for a time."

Christ, Lorna hoped not, but she could see it happening. They'd lived all their lives in the stable, modern world – they didn't know anything else, and they wouldn't be giving it up by choice. The adults might be all right as long as the booze lasted, but the kids were addicted to their computers and gaming systems. They'd only be able to explore for so long before they got bored.

"Very well. I will meet you this evening." Thranduil hung up, handing her phone back to her.

"Can they help?" she asked, stuffing the phone in her pocket.

"With the government, possibly," he said. "With our four guests, likely not. Mental manipulation is evidently so rare that they know of but one who possesses it, and he is their enemy. I am going to have to attempt it myself."

Lorna winced. Well, he'd succeeded on the doctor, and it didn't sound as though he'd fucked up any who had wandered into his forest in the past – though on the other hand, he'd never actually said he hadn't. _That_ was a thought she didn't need.

Still, even if he banjaxed it, it would be better than killing them, or locking them up for the rest of their lives. It was the least of three evils, or so she told herself. And it wasn't as though the lot of them had been kidnapped – they'd come poking around of their own free will.

Why didn't that make her feel any better?

Lorna had zero problem with hitting someone she thought deserved it, but broken bones healed. She was pretty sure broken _minds_ didn't, and while she didn't know anything about these four, she doubted they deserved it.

She sipped her tea. Would Thranduil see it that way? Maybe, maybe not. Even if he did, she doubted it would stop him, because he really was creepily overprotective, and not just of her and the twins.

Oh well. There wasn't exactly anything to be done about it until the DMA people arrived, and they could actually make some kind of plan. She'd try not to worry until then, although she doubted she'd succeed.

* * *

Miranda had a headache.

It wasn't surprising that Lord Thranduil had managed to catch the interest of someone in the Irish government, but she wasn't sure what she was going to do about it. All the people she had in various world governments were secretive about what they were, and the DMA couldn't afford for even one to blow their cover.

Then again, scandal was easily manufactured, and all the more easily by some of her agents. Once she found out just who was interested in him, she could set up something involving bestiality porn. They might not have a telepath to loan Lord Thranduil, but technopaths they had in plenty.

She pinched the bridge of her nose, and went to dig a bottle of whiskey from her kitchen cupboard. The Elf was, she was sure, only going to cause more trouble. She probably ought to be glad he was the last one, even if she did feel sorry for the poor bastard.

No normals had been in the DMA for over a thousand years, but they could make an exception for the people of Lasgaelen, if it came to it. It wasn't like they didn't already know about the supernatural, and the DMA itself. After those staggering caves, nothing in the DMA was going to overwhelm them.

Miranda dumped a few ice cubes into a glass, adding a generous amount of whiskey. Lord Thranduil had told her of his plan to hide the village, but she highly doubted that would do a damn thing about electronic surveillance – she'd send him a technopath or two. They couldn't do anything about satellite photos, but they could scramble ground tech.

She wished she could say fabricating goat-human sex was the weirdest thing she'd ever asked anyone to do, but it wasn't. Not by a long shot.

* * *

By the time they reached the house that evening, Thranduil could tell Lorna was exhausted, so he dealt with the twins while she crawled into bed. Though her incision was largely healed, she probably shouldn't be moving around so much, but he couldn't think of any way to keep her still.

Well, no way she would allow, anyway. There were many things he could do that would keep her in one place and wear her out at the same time, but he was hardly going to press _that_ issue. Eventually, he would let her know just how very receptive he was, but it would be up to her to initiate anything. Eru knew he'd more than initiated the first time.

He couldn't deny that he'd dreamt of her – of what he could do, and make her feel. She thought little of her appearance, and perhaps other Edain did, too, but to him she was beautiful, scars and all. Her fëa showed her as she should be – as she would be, had her life been different – and he thought anyone would have thought her lovely then.

She was so deeply asleep that she didn't stir when he ran his fingers through her hair, threaded with silver and soft as strands of black silk. Yes, she was beautiful, in her own odd way, and someday he would make her realize it.

Thranduil drew his hand away. He couldn't have her yet; he would have to earn that privilege. Even had she granted it already, he couldn't take her right now anyway – not until she had fully recovered from the trauma of the twins' birth. He had no idea how long that would take one of the Eldar, let alone one of the Edain. Lorna was a tough little creature, but she was still an Edain. Some things just took time.

Now she shifted, snuggling against his side rather like an overgrown cat. He had her, and the twins, and his motley village, and while he would not actually destroy Eire to keep them safe, he was not above destroying a _few_ things.

But the DMA, he hoped, would ensure it never came to that. While it galled him to know that he likely could not keep his family and his people safe on his own, this was no longer his world. He was going to have to learn to adapt as the Edain did.

He rested his chin atop Lorna's head, breathing the lavender sent of her hair. Tomorrow would bring what it would bring. Once those from the DMA arrived, he would cast his enchantment, and Lasgaelen would vanish from the outside world.

* * *

Lorna woke to the sun in her face, Thranduil wrapped around her like a clinging vine. When she turned her head, she found his stare empty and fixed, which meant he was probably still asleep. (She was never getting used to that. _Ever_.)

She desperately needed to pee, but even asleep, he didn't seem inclined to let go of her. She had to poke him in his velvet-clad ribs until he blinked awake. "Bathroom," she said. "I'll be right back."

If he'd been anyone else, she would have sworn he was pouting, but at least he released her. She scurried into the bathroom, did her business, and brushed the fuzz off her teeth before darting back to the warmth of her bed.

Thranduil immediately pulled her close, running his fingers through her hair, and she breathed in the heady scent of him without reservation. There was something inexpressibly comforting about lying with him like this, but she was beginning to want more.

The day she'd met him, she had registered, through her mental haze, that he was bloody gorgeous, but under normal circumstances it wouldn't have led her to actually shagging him. She just wasn't the sort. Now, though – now she _knew_ him, at least somewhat, knew how maddening, thoughtful, creepy, and sweet he could be. He was a complex person, not a beautiful statue given life, and she wanted him. _All_ of him, mind and body. She wanted to kiss him now not only because he was beautiful, but because she loved him. He was strong and unearthly and utterly devoted to her and the twins – hell, to the whole village. No, perhaps she wasn't _in_ love with him yet, but there was more than one kind of love.

But was it fair to him, to kiss him with no follow-through? Was there etiquette to snogging? She didn't really know. Liam had been her first and only boyfriend until she met Thranduil, and he'd been almost as inexperienced as she was. If there _was_ etiquette, he didn't know it, either. She wasn't capable of following through right now even if she wanted to, but oh, she wanted to kiss him.

Lorna doubted he was reading her mind, but something in her expression must have given her away, for he gave her a smirk that was rather gentler than usual. Slowly, as though careful not to startle her, he slipped his fingers into her hair, drew her close, and kissed her.

It was light at first, soft and exploratory and almost chaste, as though he was determined not to overwhelm her as he had on the day they met. There was nothing tentative in it, however, and when she parted her lips, Thranduil explored her mouth with unhurried thoroughness. _God_ he tasted good, sweet and rich and spicy and, somehow, still a little like wine – she could drink him in for hours, if given the chance.

His free arm wrapped around her waist, drawing her closer still, leaving her flush against him, and it was a good thing she wasn't medically allowed to shag yet, because he was already seriously testing her resolve, and they hadn't even done more than kiss. It didn't help that she knew exactly what he was capable of, with his hands and that wicked tongue – the day they'd met, he'd made her come harder than she ever had in her life. Three times. Her arms wrapped around him now of their own accord, exploring the broad plane of his back.

Eventually, she had to break the kiss so she could properly breathe, but Thranduil didn't miss a beat; his mouth traveled the line of her jaw, down her neck, kissing and nipping just lightly enough that he wouldn't leave a mark. His silky hair brushed over her arms beneath the sleeves of her T-shirt, soft where it touched her throat, and she gave a contented sigh when he pushed aside her collar and kissed his way along her shoulder.

Caesarean or no cesarean, Lorna had no plans to ask him to stop, so it was just as well someone knocked on the door when they did. She bit back a groan of frustration, though she knew she ought to be grateful. Hurting herself because she was too horny not to wouldn't actually be any fun.

"The DMA people are here," Mairead called through the door. "Get decent, if you aren't already."

"They don't mess about, do they?" Lorna muttered, wishing she could drag Thranduil back to her when he got up. Still, she ought to be grateful they'd got here so soon, especially since she didn't actually know how far they'd had to come. On the list of currently important things, her libido was close to the very bottom.

She didn't bother with jeans – her fleece pyjama bottoms were much warmer, and she doubted these people would care. At least she swapped her oversized T-shirt for a dark green sweater – it too was far too large, but it didn't look so slovenly. Brushing the rat's-nest that was her hair would take far too much time, so she took the brush with her when she followed Thranduil downstairs.

The smell of French toast assailed her, and immediately made her stomach rumble. Mairead and Kevin had taken both the cars and gone on one massive grocery run yesterday, buying so much that a number of shelves in the lounge were stacked with boxes and cans, the cupboards having been jammed past capacity in short order. Much of it, Mairead said, was going down into Thranduil's halls, to be stored there in case they had to evacuate at a moment's notice. It was a damn good thing she was so sensible, because Lorna might not have thought of that.

Seated at the kitchen table were two women and a man, all looking quite at ease. One of the women was probably around Lorna's age, a tall woman with long black hair and eyes nearly as dark, her complexion the color of teak. The man looked like he could be her twin, though he was much bulkier, and a bit shorter. The second woman was older, maybe in her forties, and she was the palest person Lorna had ever seen, her hair and eyebrows and even her _eyelashes_ white, with eyes nearly as light as Thranduil's. If she wasn't albino, she was something close.

Thranduil watched the three of them with what was, for him, open curiosity – those who knew him would be able to identify it, even if this trio couldn't. They watched him right back, their inquisitiveness far more blatant, and Lorna wondered what they'd been told about him, and the situation in general.

"Miranda told us you knew we were coming," the pale lady said. Her accent was very faintly Russian. "My name is Sveta – these two are Shivshankari and Damodara," she added, pointing at the other woman and the man, respectively. "They're your technopaths – they'll deal with anything technological that gets thrown at you, or try to. I'm not a telepath, but I'm the next best thing, and the only thing we've got right now."

"What do you do?" Lorna asked, dragging out a chair and sitting to face her.

"I'm an empath. I can read people's emotions, but I can also control them to a degree," Sveta said, a measure of dryness to her tone. "I can't wipe your prisoners' memories, but I can basically make them so high they'll be of no use to anyone. Forever."

Lorna choked on a laugh before she could help it. It really wasn't funny – it might not be a memory-wipe, but it was still something that would forever alter them. Even it wasn't fair – but then, she reminded herself, the four of them had come poking about of their own free will. She had to keep telling herself that it wasn't as though the village had kidnapped the poor bastards, though even that wasn't precisely comforting. She doubted anything really would be.

A glance at Thranduil told her he still didn't share her compunction, and she doubted he ever would. God only knew what he'd done in the past, to keep his kingdom safe – though she believed him when he said he wasn't in the habit of hurting innocent people. When he'd dealt with their various interlopers, she'd seen flashes of things that made her think he could be very, very cold if he chose, but he'd never done anything to make her think there was actual cruelty in him.

"Now that you are here, I will cast my enchantment," he said. "You will be exempt, but any others of your people must come with you, or they will not find this village. I do not know how my magic will interfere with Edain technology, but I suspect it will cause some measure of interference in and of itself. Your task may not be as difficult as it would otherwise."

"We can hope," Shivshankari said. Her accent was very, very heavily American. "Part of our purpose is to make sure everything _inside_ your enchantment still works. They will cut off your electricity and water supply from the outside – the water we might not be able to help, but we can keep your power on."

"Water will not be an issue," he said. "I have access to more than enough, though transporting it might prove difficult."

'Difficult' was an understatement. Water was damn heavy, and hauling it all the way to the village would be a nightmare – especially since they'd have to get it to the edge of the woods before they could load it into a car, and even then, they'd run out of gas eventually.

"We will see what might be done," Damodara said. "This will not be easy, but it can be done."

Lorna hoped like hell he was right.

"Tell me something," Sveta said, "will this enchantment physically keep people out, should they find a way in through sheer accident?"

"No," Thranduil said, with a slightly unpleasant smile, "but my dungeons are very, very large."

* * *

It's a damn good thing they've got help from the DMA, or they'd be screwed in very short order. They'll get the distraction Thranduil and Big Jamie want fairly soon, and they'll both regret wanting one.

Title means "Change is coming" in Irish. As ever, your comments feed my brain, and keep it from zombiefying. Om nom nom.


	21. Cealú agus Fionnachtana

In which Thranduil and the technopaths cut Lasgaelen off from the outside world, Lorna, Jamie, and Michael learn a bit about magic, the villagers are, well…themselves, and Thranduil unknowingly touches a nerve.

* * *

Lorna was very, very curious about the technopaths, and since Doc Barry had ordered her to bloody sit _still_ already, sit she did, watching them from the far end of the bar with a twin on either side of her. She was somewhat unnerved by the fact that _they_ seemed to be watching the pair, too.

They'd chosen the pub to work in first because it and the Market drew the most electricity on a more or less consistent basis. The surgery only had a power surge when there was an emergency – which, apparently, there had been yesterday. Old Orla had run over a fifth government goon, snapping his femur clean in half. Even with a cast, he couldn't be moved like that, so he was currently handcuffed to a bed until they could figure out what to do with him. Nuala was conscientious about giving him his pain medication, but aside from that she didn't bother coddling him.

The pub was currently rather empty, so the technopaths could work in peace; only she, Big Jamie, and Michael remained, so that they could turn things on or off as instructed. Just now, every light was blazing, the dishwashers running and all the ovens open and on high, rendering the entire pub so hot they had to leave the door half open. Big Jamie used the occasional need to turn on a blender as an excuse to make the lot of them margaritas.

So far, Shivshankari and Damodara hadn't done much of anything that was actually visible to an outsider – they just sat at the bar, staring at nothing. From what little they'd had time to explain, they didn't just feel electricity, they _saw_ it, and knew how to manipulate it to their own ends, no matter what the wires and circuits intended.

Lorna wondered what electricity looked like to them – and just what they were currently doing with it, aside from driving Big Jamie's electric bill through the ceiling.

"Grid One's separate," Shivshankari said, blinking.

"What's that, then?" Michael asked.

"We're disconnecting your power grids from the outside," she explained. "We've been building a charge in this one."

"Then why haven't the fuses blown?" Big Jamie asked.

"It's cycling," she said. "Feeding on itself and lingering in the grid until you need it. Think of it like concentrated orange juice."

"Yeah, that's not helping. How can you _concentrate_ electricity?" He sounded almost offended by the idea.

She smiled. "It's called magic for a reason."

"It's a rubbish explanation," he grumbled. "You could use it to handwave anything."

"No, you can't," Damodara said, blinking. "Grid Two's separate. Even magic has its limitations, and we've all got rules. It does what it does, and _only_ what it does. Your Lord Thranduil would say the same. We could no more do what he does than he could do what we do."

"Sounds inconvenient," Michael said, pouring himself a beer. Even with the door open, he was sweating.

"It works that way for a reason. Look at what even the birth of those twins did to the weather. Get too much free-floating magic and you have hurricanes that would make Katrina look like nothing," Shivshankari said. "It didn't work that way before the Obliteration, but if our failsafes ever, well, _failed_ , the world would be in big trouble."

"Have they ever failed?" Lorna asked, rocking Shane's carrier by the handle.

"Only once that we know of," Shivshankari said, "though the records are pretty sparse."

"What happened?" Michael asked. He had a mustache of foam coating his upper lip.

She smiled humorlessly. "You know how most cultures have a flood myth? Yeah, apparently that was our fault. We have a better system now."

"Is Thranduil's enchantment going to overload it?" While Lorna doubted it, she didn't actually _know_ a damn thing.

"Probably not," Shivshankari said. "His magic isn't like ours. Julifer says he draws it off some other source entirely. Miranda would rather he not know that, though, if he doesn't already. She doesn't want him getting ideas."

Lorna snorted. He'd get _ideas_ anyway, but it was probably best he not know he could get away with them. She trusted him with many things, but not necessarily to know when enough was enough.

She was getting some _ideas_ of her own, unfortunately. Her hormones must be spiking, because she kept picturing him naked at inopportune times. Weren't those hormones meant to subside after giving birth? She should not be wanting to lick him while watching the two people who were going to make sure they'd have working light bulbs once they were cut off from the outside world. That was just creepy.

She sipped her margarita, banishing the images to the back of her mind. God, she'd missed alcohol. She probably shouldn't be having any now, but one drink wasn't going to kill her. Most of the scabs had come off her incision (and wasn't _that_ gross); blood thinners weren't an issue anymore. Now she could actually try a glass of Thranduil's wine, whenever they actually got a chance.

She wondered if he'd let her lick it off his chest.

* * *

The village was busy preparing itself as if for a storm, but Thranduil stood in the silent peace of his forest, focusing.

It had been centuries since had deliberately exerted real magic, and there was the added complication of ensuring he did not use too much. He had never been as precise as Galadriel and Elrond, but he had also never had an Elven Ring to aid him.

Not until now.

Galadriel had bequeathed Nenya to him before she sailed, in the hope that it might someday aid him, though its power was greatly diminished. He had used it as best he could during the Obliteration, to little avail; it was merely a shadow of its former self, no matter how beautifully it glittered in the sunlight.

It could still, however, act as a focus. The Eldar were not as the Istari, with their staves and thousand of spells – their magic was more subtle, and more limited, but as strong as the foundations of the earth upon which he stood. Properly focused and channeled, he could tear this entire island apart. Hiding this one small area would be little trouble by comparison – once he actually dredged it up. What little magic had remained after the Obliteration had largely atrophied, and did not want to be stirred.

Thranduil had not, until now, realized how much he missed it, the tingle of it stirring all around him. Once, he and all Eldar had been in full possession of it, so thoroughly that to be without it was unimaginable. It was in _everything_ – the earth, the water, the air, unknown to any but a few of the Edain. To feel it now, waking from its long slumber – he wished there was another Elda to share it with, for even the Gifted among the Edain would not truly understand, and his children were far too young.

But he was not truly alone. One by one, the Lingerers gathered around him, for once moved by something in the physical world without prompting. Their fëar shimmered before him, visible to none save himself and one another, their eyes temporarily cleared of obliviousness.

Gradually, the cold air around him warmed, the shiver of waking magic feeding off the chill. It traveled through the earth, along tree-roots great and small, reaching upward into the bare canopy. He could see it, even if none of the Edain would be able to, for it unfurled within the spirit world as well – pale, delicate coils at first, gaining size and strength with each passing moment.

Thranduil smiled, pleased that he need not see how he would truly go to protect his people from the outside world. If none could find their way in, there need be no violence. The DMA, who knew far about this world than he did, would come up with a more permanent solution.

* * *

Lasgaelen was out-of-the-way enough that there were none to witness what happened to it.

The village did not disappear all at once. Its vanishing was gradual, tendrils creeping up and forming a dome of emptiness, leaving nothing but a field of snow and sky. By the time it was finished, one would never have known there had ever been a village at all.

* * *

Lorna ate lunch and headed home, changing out the twins' drips when she arrived. Given how fast they were growing, she hoped they'd be able to switch to baby food soon, because they couldn't order any more of their current formula. For now they still had plenty, but once it was gone, it was gone.

She got them settled into the playpen – now that they were trying to be mobile, she didn't feel safe turning her back on them unless they were confined, and went into the kitchen to peruse all Mairead had bought. It looked like enough to feed an army, but given how much the four kids could eat, Lorna had a feeling they'd run through it faster than she might expect.

Now that everything was at least temporarily settled, she was jittery and restless, pacing the kitchen. She couldn't escape the feeling that this was the calm before some massive storm – she wanted to _do_ something, but thanks to her incision, most of her usual activities were right out. Doc Barry had already scolded her for moving about so much, but Lorna had never been any good at sitting still for very long.

Maybe going to the woods would help. Once Thranduil was done doing whatever he was doing, he would probably come here, and he could carry the twins on the way back. Yes, there was a danger that she'd try to jump his bones, but self-control wasn't entirely beyond her.

She groaned, resting her forehead against the cool door of the freezer. She'd been so very determined to keep her pants on until they'd got married, but that was before all this… _this_ happened. God only knew when there would be time for a proper wedding anyway, especially if they were unlucky enough that things went to hell in spite of everyone's best intentions. Yes, she had her scruples, but after everything, she wasn't about to deny herself solely to satisfy them. If the opportunity presented itself after next week…she wasn't going to say no.

If this really _was_ just a hormone spike, it would be over by then. If not…well, she'd just take the kids and stay with Thranduil for a few days. They wouldn't have anybody (meaning Mairead) breathing down their necks, and they could just see where things went. They hadn't had much time to spend alone together even in a platonic sense for weeks now.

That being said, she'd raid the surgery for condoms anyway.

* * *

Siobhan hadn't realized just how of the people of Lasgaelen constrained their activities solely out of fear of getting caught.

As soon as word came down that Lord Thranduil's spell thing had taken hold, it seemed like half the village brought out fireworks they had to have been hoarding since before the things were banned, dragging them out into the fields and lighting up the night sky. The snow was stained with brief flashes of red and gold and green, the cold air redolent of sulfur.

It was the children, mostly, who set them off; the adults had lit a bonfire a little ways away, and sat around it in plastic lawn chairs, most holding a can of ale. Big Jamie, looking indulgent, and Orla, looking slightly worried every time her eyes strayed to the kids; Mick and Alec, arguing as usual; Doc Barry and John, both of whom were avoiding the alcohol; Nuala and her sister, Molly, who had brought a plastic tarp to sit on and were sharing what looked like a cherry cheesecake, and Kevin O'Reilly, looking a bit exhausted. He didn't have anything close to Mairead's stamina – and from what Siobhan had heard, he was still in the doghouse after almost burning his face off trying to deep-fry a turkey at Christmas. She and Bridie had their own small blaze, watching over the children with eagle-eyes.

More arrived, building three more fires, and Siobhan wondered if this was what village life would have been hundreds of years ago – minus the fireworks, of course. How often would everyone have gathered outside together under the stars? It must have been so much simpler then, even if it also would have been a great deal more uncomfortable. The modern world might be a stressful place, but at least it had indoor plumbing.

She looked up just in time to spot Lorna and Lord Thranduil approaching. If not for the baby-carrier he had in each hand, she might have thought he'd stepped right out of a time-portal or something. He looked odd and out-of-place in the village, even now, but in this kind of setting, it worked a lot better.

He also looked so disgustingly pleased with himself that she kind of wanted to hit him on sheer principle. She knew he was bloody powerful, but he sometimes looked so arrogant that she wondered how often _Lorna_ had smacked him for it.

It was a bit odd how, mismatched though they ought to have seemed together, they somehow didn't. Not anymore, anyway. They moved to accommodate one another in a way that seemed entirely automatic, and often seemed to communicate entirely through glances. Just now they got the carriers set up on another tarp with little in the way of words, and sat down behind them, able to keep an eye on the twins and lean against each other at the same time, both wrapped up in his silvery cloak.

Dammit, Siobhan needed a girlfriend. The trouble with being gay in a small town was that you pretty much had to import your significant other, and _that_ was hardly going to happen right now. Those two looked so sweet together it was almost nauseating, and she wanted to someone to nauseate other people with, too.

She drained her can of lager, crushed it, tossed it into the fire, and let out a belch that would have done her father proud, had he not been dead for two years. It was so loud that it actually echoed a little off the trees.

"Classy," Nuala called. She had blob of cherry filling on her upper lip.

"You know it," Siobhan retorted, and belched again.

"I'd give that about an eight," Lorna said. "I know you can do better."

"So says the woman who always wins the belching contests," Michael said, around a mouthful of crisps. He spewed a few crumbs down the front of his jumper, which of course he didn't notice.

"You know," she said thoughtfully, her head rested against Lord Thranduil's shoulder, "if we could all manage to belch at once, I bet it'd _really_ echo."

Young Orla groaned, but Big Jamie laughed. "I'm game if you are. Everybody who wants in, get something and chug it." He tossed Lorna a can of orange fizzy drink rather than a lager, and though she sighed, she didn't protest – and she was wise enough to open it over the snow, rather than the tarp, for of course it fizzed over.

The snap of tabs and hiss of carbonation surrounded the fire like a snake with extraordinarily bad gas, and Siobhan joined in when everybody dutifully started chugging away, though she really wasn't thirsty anymore. Young Orla, pained though she looked, seemed to be keeping track of everyone.

"On your mark," she sighed, once Michael finally got to the bottom of his can, "get set: go."

The sound that split the night was like that of the world's biggest bullfrog, and it did indeed echo very impressively – not just against the edge of the forest, but further in, chasing itself through the trees for a good ten seconds.

Lorna took one look at Lord Thranduil's disturbed expression and burst out laughing – and she wasn't the only one. Siobhan herself laughed so hard she was nearly sick, a stitch in her side and a hiccup in her gut.

"I rescind my rule over you all," he said, his pale eyes traveling from one person to another. "That was appalling."

"Do Elves not belch?" Doc Barry asked, through her own giggling.

"Not like _that_ ," he replied, sounding so offended it set Siobhan all over again.

"They also don't sneeze," Lorna put in. "Startled the hell out'v him the first time he saw me do it."

"It _is_ rather…violent," he said. "Though not half so distasteful as it was when you actually sneezed in my face."

"Gross, Aunt Lorna," Shannon called. She'd wandered over, drawn by the burping, stinking of sulfur. "You're supposed to sneeze into your sleeve."

"I didn't exactly have a chance," Lorna protested, ooching one of the carriers over so her niece could sit. "I was parked on Thranduil's lap at the time."

Shannon's expression was so revolted that Siobhan thought she just might flee into the night again, but apparently the lure of warmth was too much. Still, she looked a bit green, even in the firelight.

"You know what, I don't want to know," Nuala said.

Lorna scowled at her. "It wasn't like _that_ ," she said. "We were sitting in Big Jamie's office, and you know how tiny that is. This was the night'v the flood, when I'd just found out I'd got married without knowing it." She gave Lord Thranduil a very pointed look, but he seemed entirely unrepentant, a slight smirk tugging at his lips. "You know, if I'd been a different sort, I really might've skinned you for that."

"If you had been a different sort, I wouldn't have taken the risk," he retorted. "As it was, I doubted you were any form of murderer."

Lorna froze, and Siobhan winced. By now half the village knew that Lorna had done time for manslaughter, even if no one knew the particulars. Obviously she hadn't told _him_ that, though – not that Siobhan could blame her.

Silence fell, in which nobody quite knew what to do or say. Lorna, apparently unable to handle it, struggled to her feet and headed off into the snow, seemingly in no particular direction.

Lord Thranduil looked utterly bewildered, and more than a little concerned. When he went to rise himself, however, Big Jamie held up a hand.

"Leave her be," he said. "You've touched a nerve you apparently didn't know was there."

"What are you talking about?" Lord Thranduil demanded, and there was an edge to his deep voice that made Siobhan shiver, fighting not to edge away.

Big Jamie's eyes traveled the group. "Not here," he said. "Orla, will you look after the twins for a minute?"

"'Course I will." Her blue eyes were wide and anxious.

Lord Thranduil followed Big Jamie, though it was clear he did not want to. As soon as they'd gone, Siobhan hopped to her feet and took off after Lorna. She might not need her sort-of husband right now, but she also didn't need to be alone.

* * *

Big Jamie really did not want to be the one to break this to Lord Thranduil, but _somebody_ had to – the Elf surely wouldn't rest until he'd found out, and obviously Lorna hadn't felt comfortable doing it.

This far away from the fire, it was damn cold – though not half so cold as Lord Thranduil's eyes. "Explain," he said, his voice deep as a cavern and sharp as a knife.

Jamie would freely admit his gut was twisting when he said, "Lorna did a stint in prison, when she was younger. She accidentally killed her father, and she's a bit…touchy…about it."

He hadn't thought he would ever see Lord Thranduil truly surprised, but surprised he visibly was, those ungodly eyes wide. "How?"

"I shouldn't be the one telling you the particulars," Jamie said wretchedly, wondering how he could sweat so much in such cold. "That's her story, not mine, but I don't know that she'll tell it. They were fighting over summat when he was drunk as a lord, and he tripped down the front steps. Bashed his head in, the report said."

Disturbed though Lord Thranduil looked, he said, "That is hardly _her_ fault."

Much as he shouldn't say this, he did anyway. "He tripped because she punched him. She was on God knows what herself at the time, but I know she didn't mean to kill him. She'd not been long at work when we both got drunk, and she told me that death was too good for him."

Lord Thranduil looked away, into the shadow of the trees. "Why has she not told me this?"

"You obviously haven't got her drunk," Jamie snorted. "Humans work like that. There's some things we'll just not speak'v of our own accord. And before you go getting all judgy on her, I'm sure you've got plenty'v things you've not told _her_ yet."

Those pale eyes returned to him, marginally less cold. "I would not judge her for it," he said. "You are right: there is much I have not told Lorna, and perhaps I never will. I have not truly pried into her secrets, and I will not. She has killed but one of your kind, and by mistake."

Something very like dread bloomed in Jamie's gut like an icy flower. "You've killed humans? I thought you said you didn't."

"This was very long ago," Lord Thranduil said. "Some four and a half thousand years. Not all of your people were as welcoming of my kind as you have been. Bands of Edain would attack us, from time to time – it was rare in Eire, but other realms had more difficulty. I was not about to destroy your homes, but neither would I allow you to defile mine."

That…okay, that was understandable. God knew they'd done enough killing of each other back then, too – but even if Lord Thranduil was lying, Jamie would have no way of knowing. Hell, even _Lorna_ might not, for all she knew him better. He was so old, and had seen and done so much….

"Rest assured, I will not judge Lorna," Lord Thranduil said. "Even had she outright murdered him, I could never. Though she has spoken little of her childhood, I know what that man was. Lorna does not know what true evil is – none of you do, and I hope you need never find out." He shook his head. "Someday I will tell you stories of this world as it once was. There was much light, but there was a great deal of darkness I doubt you are aware of. The Obliteration was the worst, but it was not alone."

That was both a relief and really bloody unsettling."Then you'd best go find Lorna and tell her," Jamie said. "And don't task her for not telling you before."

Lord Thranduil looked genuinely mystified. "Why would I do that? We all have our secrets."

* * *

Lorna knew Siobhan meant well, but she was in no mood to talk to anyone. She stuffed her hands in her pockets, shivering as she trudged through the snow. She couldn't stay away long – she couldn't leave the twins – but right now she just could not deal with anyone.

At least Siobhan didn't actually _say_ anything. It was a damn good thing, because in her current mood, Lorna might just have lamped her one if she tried. What Thranduil would do with _that_ piece of information, she didn't know, but she'd never intended to tell him. It, like so many other things in her past, simply weren't to be shared – and she was sure it was the same with him.

Christ, she needed a drink. A whole bottle of something cheap and burning, and about a carton of cigarettes, and then maybe, _maybe_ she wouldn't want to walk right off the edge of a bridge anymore. Her shivering was making her incision ache, but even that wasn't enough to distract her.

Behind her, the crunch of Siobhan's footsteps stopped, but Lorna didn't turn. She might not be able to hear Thranduil approach, but she'd learned to sense him out of sheer self-defense, so she wouldn't come close to a heart attack every time she turned and found him standing there.

More footsteps, this time retreating, but Lorna kept going, unable to look at him right now. If there was judgment in his arctic eyes, she didn't know how she'd be able to stand it.

"Lorna," he said, and his tone was as close to gentle as she'd ever hear it. "Lorna, stop."

Stop she did, though she still didn't face him. How could she? The shame she felt didn't lie in killing her father, however accidentally – it came from the fact that she wasn't sorry. No, she could never have done it on purpose, no matter how much she hated him, but she didn't regret his death at all. If she'd known where he was buried, she would have spat on his grave without a qualm.

"I wasn't going to tell you," she said. Might as well get all the truth out at one go. "The others, they don't mean to me what you do. I don't care what they think'v me half so much as I do you. I didn't want you to know what it was I used to be."

Thranduil touched her shoulder, and she finally turned to him. He was usually difficult to read, but just now his expression was surprisingly open. "I would not fault you, had you never told me," he said. "That I love you does not mean I have the right to all of your secrets. There is much I have not told you, and may never tell you, for it is too painful for me to revisit."

"I bet you never killed one'v your parents, even by accident," she said, wanting to step toward him but too afraid to move.

"No," he said, closing the distance between them, "but I made several disastrous decisions that got hundreds of my people killed. I might not have slain them with my own hands, but they would not have died if not for my folly." He paused a moment, taking her hands. "Come with me, Dilthen Ettelëa – there is something I would show you, but I will not do it out here. We must go to your home, and I must hope that you will still wish to return to me once you have seen."

* * *

Yeah, three guesses what he's going to show her. That had to be got out in the open, though, because they really _do_ need to learn more about each other.

Title means "Disappearance and Discovery" in Irish. As always, your reviews keep me inspired.


	22. Rúin

In which Lorna and Thranduil bare their souls, as much as either is actually able.

* * *

In truth, Thranduil did not at all want to do this. He knew Lorna wasn't shallow, but his disfigurement was truly horrifying even to him. It had tainted him – he had wondered more than once if that poison was why he could not bear to sail, why he was certain would not have been allowed to even if he'd wished. All who looked at him saw the smooth perfection of the Eldar; none now in this world had any idea what lurked beneath the surface.

The house was pleasantly warm after the cold night air, though he only turned on one of the kitchen lights. Given what he was about to show her, one was enough.

Lorna was watching him warily, and he didn't think he had ever seen such open vulnerability on her face – not even when they spoke after their first argument. She was a very expressive little person, but she rarely expressed all that went on in her mind, but she let him see just how tentative she really was now.

He drew her over to the kitchen table, gesturing for her to sit. Unaccustomed anxiety twisted in his chest, tight as a band around his heart. His mind screamed at him not to do this, but part of him felt compelled to.

"What I am going to show you may revolt you," he said, sitting to face her. "No, I know it will, for it is revolting, but you should know the truth before you make your mind up to wed me."

"Show me what?" she asked, and he could understand her confusion; she had, after all, seen him with no clothes on.

Thranduil sighed again. "I told you of the dragon in Erebor, but Smaug was not the only dragon to curse the surface of this world. If ought another, nearly five thousand years ago, and I did not come out of it unscathed."

Dropping the glamour was one of the hardest things he had done in centuries, for he had worn it so long it was part of him now, as natural as breathing. He'd long since grown used to the numbness, which was a mercy compared to the agony of the initial wound.

Lorna's eyes widened, as he'd known they would, but she didn't recoil. Her gaze flicked over his face from one side to the other, taking him in. "Does it hurt?" she asked, and there was no revulsion in her tone.

"Not anymore," he said. "This is me as I truly am, Dilthen Ettelëa. If you run away now, I would not fault you."

Her eyes narrowed. "You're an eejit," she said, before she lunged across the table, seized his collar, and kissed him.

Now _he_ was the one who was shocked, so much so that she nearly knocked him backward. Of all the reactions he had expected, this was not one of them. When she brought her hand up to the scar, her touch was light, but he suspected that was out of care, not disgust.

It took him a moment to kiss her back, but when he did it was hungry, and entirely without restraint. She tasted of alcohol and bread and _Lorna_ , and the only thing that kept him from taking her right there on the table was the fact that the twins were still outside.

When she broke away, she leaned back enough to look at him. Her face was flushed, her pupils blown wide. "I don't love you because'v what you look like, you daft bugger," she said, a touch breathless. "Yes, you're beautiful, but I'd still love you if you walked about like this all the time. You've seen my scars, Thranduil, and how banjaxed my ribs are, and you accept me as I am. Did you really think I wouldn't be the same with you?"

Thranduil dragged her the rest of the way across the table, settling her in his lap and resting his chin on the crown of her head. "I could not be certain," he said. "Eru knows I cannot stand to look at it myself."

"I'll look for both'v us," she said, resting her head against his shoulder. "I won't lie – it's startling, but it's not what you think it is, and it's not the first wound'v it's kind I've seen. There was a woman in prison with me who was there because she killed her husband for shoving her face on a hot stove. Scarred her for life, but at least she gutted him for it. Literally."

"Your world is horrifying, Dilthen Ettelëa," he said, unspeakably relieved. "Come with me. There is more I would tell you, while I still have the courage. Let us take the twins and go home."

"There's some things I ought to tell you, too," she said. "I'm just drunk enough that I'll actually say them out loud."

He let her stand, willing the glamour back into place, and followed her out into the cold.

* * *

That wound really had startled Lorna, but she'd spent five years sharing a cell with Shelagh – she didn't find it horrifying. She could understand why he covered it up, but he didn't need to around her. It wasn't as though she wouldn't get used to it, though no matter what he said, she'd fear hurting him if she touched it.

She took his hand as she walked, both to give him reassurance and to focus herself. That kiss had all but shut her brain down for a moment, and it was a damn good thing it was so cold outside. If there wasn't some snogging after their mutual revelations, she was going to be very annoyed. They would probably both need it.

She was irritated but unsurprised when the villagers gave the pair of them wary looks, but their linked hands seemed to allay a few worries. Thranduil had to release her to pick up the twins, however, but she linked her arm through his.

"I've got my mobile, Mairead, but we'll be gone a bit," she said. "Don't burn anything down while we're away."

"Ha-very-ha her sister said, though she still looked rather worried. Lorna would deal with that later.

The walk was a long one, since she had to flail through the snow, but that was a good thing. She needed the time to organize the skeletons in her mental closet – there weren't many, but there were a number of things she had done in her life that she was not proud of. There were a number more that she _shouldn't_ be proud of, but was anyway. She had left much behind when she moved to Lasgaelen, much that she didn't want to remember, let alone share.

But then, Thranduil had to be the same and then some, being so much older – she doubted he would pry any more than she would.

When they reached the halls, their warmth as more than welcome, and for once she didn't find the silence saddening. It made it a little easier for her to gather her thoughts as they traversed the walkways to Thranduil's room. Childproofing this place really was going to be a nightmare, she thought. How had the Elves of the past handled it? Surely there hadn't been a constant rash of broken legs. She couldn't imagine dozens of elf children hobbling around with casts.

She took the twins out of their carriers when they arrived at his room, while Thranduil lit more lamps and stirred up the fire. She noted with amusement that he'd set up a sort of playpen of his own – four wooden posts with some sheer, pale blue fabric stretched between them, placed atop a patchwork of fat cushions and filled with soft toys. There were hooks hanging above it for their drips, though by now those weren't constant.

Shane was fast asleep, and stayed fast asleep when he was carefully lowered onto the cushions. Saoirse's big green eyes traveled the room, and when Lorna set her down, she grabbed a stuffed bunny and started chewing on its ear. Christ, Lorna remembered what teething had been like in her youngest brother. Mick was her only experience with babies and small children, so she was damn glad Thranduil actually knew what the hell he was doing.

She shed her coat and boots, wondering how she was to start this round of confessions, and hoping he would, first. Lorna was good at communicating when it came to communicating superficial things, but deeper emotions were so much harder. Unfortunately, she had a feeling he was even worse.

When the fire was burning high, he drew her to sit on the sofa, pulling her close. Lorna was grateful; some of this would be easier said if they weren't face-to-face. His natural Thranduil scent was mingled with smoke and winter, his hair tickling soft against her cheek.

They sat a while in silence, but finally, he spoke. "You say I did not kill my parents, and I did not." His voice was deep and calm, though not quite steady. "But my wife rode in the disastrous charge I led against foes who no longer exist in this world. I led her to her death."

Lorna had no idea what to say to that, so she said nothing – she merely took his hand, giving it a light squeeze .There was more, she was sure, but he would say it in his own time.

"This was only two hundred years after I faced the dragon," he went on. "That seems a very long time to you, but to an Elf it is not long at all. Were it not for my son, I would have Faded, or perhaps taken my own life, kingdom be damned. Legolas – he was all I had left, the only thing in this world I truly loved."

Thranduil drew her closer, as though afraid she would vanish if he let her go. "I lied to you about his fate," he said softly. "It is the only lie I have ever told you, and I still do not know why. The Obliteration took him, as it took so many others – perhaps I wished that someone might believe he yet lived, that he had sailed and not burned up from fever."

Lorna gave his hand another squeeze. That was not a lie she could fault him for; hell, she might have told it herself, had their positions been reversed. When he remained silent, she knew it was her turn.

"It was my idea to go to Dublin, the night Liam died," she said, toying with a lock of hair and forcing herself to dredge up each word. "The weather was shite, and there was no reason we couldn't've gone the next day, but I just had to, and I let him drive. If I'd been behind the wheel, we might not've crashed, and he wouldn't've died. I wouldn't've had to _watch_ him die."

She had to pause. Tears were not in her nature; she hadn't cried since that first day in hospital, but she wished she was capable of it now. Her eyes burned, but remained dry. "We landed in the River Shannon, and I got us both out, but Liam, he'd broken his neck, I think – he was paralyzed. I'd broken my leg, but I maybe could've pulled myself up the bank, waved for help, for all I knew none would be found. We'd been alone on the motorway for ages before the crash. I _maybe_ could've, except…" She trailed off, unable to put words around the horror of the wet heat between her thighs – of feeling her child's life literally bleed away.

"I lost the baby then, too, but Liam, he hung on for hours. It was hypothermia that got him, I think, and I still don't know how it didn't get me, too. Eventually the cold turned warm, and I fell asleep. I woke up in hospital, and wished I hadn't. I didn't think anything would ever be okay again."

She leaned back, needing to look at Thranduil for this. "I feel guilty, being as happy as I've been. It's not yet a year since I lost him. I shouldn't've moved on as I have. It feels like betrayal. It's not fair to him at all, that I should love anyone so soon. I know that he wouldn't want me to be miserable, but still – it doesn't seem fair to him. To the child I lost." It was, in all honesty, one of the reasons she'd hesitated to marry Thranduil. Part of her was afraid to actually fall in love with him, even now that she was learning more of him, because it really did feel like infidelity. That, however, was not something she had it in her to say aloud.

"I cannot tell you how to feel," he said, brushing his thumb beneath her left eye. "We all mourn in different ways. I will tell you that I think you need not feel that way, but I am not you, and I have not endured all that you have.

"This is, perhaps, my fault – I should not have approached you so soon, but Lorna, content though you seemed, though you perhaps even felt, you were still dying by degrees when I found you. You know that I had followed you, that I had learned something of you, and I wished to brighten your fëa, for it was so perilously dim. I did not, however, think my actions through."

Lorna arched an eyebrow, dry in spite of herself. "That," she said, "was fairly obvious from the get-go. I obviously wasn't thinking at all, because, pretty though you are, I wouldn't've just shagged you ten minutes after I met you. I'm glad you've got your will under control since then, or we'd be having some problems."

She sighed, scrubbing her free hand over her face. "I don't regret this," she said. "Any'v it. If I had it all to do over again, I wouldn't change a thing, but that doesn't make me any less guilty. And I don't really know what to _do_ with that – sometimes I want to just wrap myself around you, sometimes I want to shag you senseless, and sometimes I'm terrified to let myself care more than I already do. I do love you, Thranduil, but not like you love me, and I'm afraid to. Wherever Liam's gone, I don't want him to think I've just forgot him, or our child."

Thranduil, thank bloody God, didn't seem offended by that at all. He brushed his thumb under her eye again, trailing his fingers down her cheek. She still wasn't used to how smooth they were. "Lorna, if he can see you wherever he is, he knows that you have not forgotten him. Were I in his position, I would not want you to die of grief. Your people are not like mine, Dilthen Ettelëa – I know that you often remarry after your spouse has died."

"What about you?" she asked. "You live forever, unless someone's killed. Do you ever get married again?"

Thranduil gave her a smile that was both sad and rueful. "Very, very rarely," he said. "You are right – we do live forever, unless we are killed, but those who die go to the halls of Mandos, where they can choose to either linger or be reborn in Aman. Most of those who lose their spouses will be reunited, but not all. If a husband or wife dies and refuses to leave the halls, the surviving spouse is allowed to marry again, if they so choose – but it is rare that an Elf will do that, and even rarer that the spouse they have left behind would _want_ to marry again.

"I will never see Anameleth again," he said, running his fingers through Lorna's hair. "Valinor and Aman are barred to me – that is the most likely reason that the thought of sailing fills me with such horror. One only finds the shores of the Blessed Realm if the Valar will it, and in my case, I do not think they would. I am bound to this world, whether I like it or not."

That…was really fucking horrifying. Why would they _do_ that to him? Thranduil, whatever he might have done in the past to protect his people, wasn't a monster. She couldn't imagine he'd done anything nearly bad enough to get him cut off from the rest of his people for eternity. "Thranduil," she said slowly, not wanting to ask at all, "what're you going to do when _I_ die?" That he would never see his first wife again was bad enough, but to lose _both_ of them…she couldn't imagine what it would do to him, and to the twins.

Lorna wasn't entirely sure she liked the expression that entered his eyes. She couldn't put any name to it, which was partially why it unsettled her so much. In the firelight, his face looked like it had been carved from pure marble; only his eyes seemed alive. "As soon as all is over," he said, his hands running along her arms, "as soon as you have a chance to think on this, I am going to petition the Valar for one of two things, depending upon your answer. I am going to either ask them to grant you immortality, or to make me mortal, so that in time we might die together. It is within their power to do both."

Lorna's heart lurched, a strange, formless terror flooding her veins. That…holy shit. _Holy shit_. That gave a rather heavier meaning to 'until death do us part'. What? Just… _what_? That was yet another thing she had no idea in hell what to do with. Rational thought momentarily came to a screeching, skidding halt.

"It is not a decision to be undertaken lightly, I know," he said, tucking her hair behind her ears. "You have the rest of your mortal life to make it. Dilthen Ettelëa, I know that you may never love me as I love you, and I would never ask you to do anything you were not entirely certain of."

"I…" She swallowed, clearing her suddenly parched throat. "You've got to give me a while on that one. That's…um."

"I know," he said, kissing her brow. The gesture was entirely affectionate, but again there was a thread of faint, nearly-undetectable possessiveness. _That_ had to get addressed, and now was the best time to do it.

Lorna sat back, looking up at him, carefully reading his expression. "Thranduil, sometimes you do things – the way you move, or the way you look at me, it's…" She shook herself. "Tell me something: if I'd turned you away, that first night you'd come to the pub, what would you have done?" She'd like to think he'd have left it at that, but she knew him well enough now to suspect he wouldn't have.

To his credit, he didn't give her some immediate, trite answer. "I do not know," he said, taking her hands. "I can honestly tell you that I would not have interfered. Had you made it clear my presence was unwelcome, I would not have troubled you again, but I cannot promise that I would not have kept watch over you from a distance."

Well, that was a bit creepy, but it could be a good deal worse, and given that he hadn't understood what stalking was, she couldn't blame him, either. She couldn't say it was surprising, given what she'd learned of him, but she had to ask one more thing: "And if the twins and I had moved away – if we'd gone back to Dublin, or some other city?"

Thranduil went still. "I wish you had not asked me that," he said, shutting his eyes. "At that time, before I truly knew you – before I truly understood you, and the ways of your people – I would have pursued you wherever you went. You would never have known I was there, but neither would you have been free of me."

Lorna twitched. She couldn't help it. At least it was an honest answer, however horrifying. She had no doubt at all that she _wouldn't_ have known, not if he hadn't wanted her to, and somehow, that thought was worse than the idea of having a visible stalker.

"I would not have done it if I had known what your people truly thought of such a thing," he assured her, opening his eyes. "Before I met you, it never occurred to me that you might resent my gathering information on you as I did."

Speaking of that, her eyes narrowed. "Thranduil, you can't read English," she said. "How did you know about Liam – about my miscarriage?"

"Are you really sure you want an answer to that?" he asked, and now he was the one who arched an eyebrow.

"No," she said bluntly, crossing her arms, "but I'm asking anyway."

"It was spring," he said. "Your people all left most of your windows open. I stood beneath yours and listened, and went through your room while you were away."

To her own surprise, Lorna burst out laughing, leaning forward to rest her forehead against his shoulder. "Thranduil, you are so. Goddamn. Bloody. _Creepy_ ," she said, and yet she couldn't keep the fondness from her tone. She probably ought to be horrified by that, by the fact that he'd been actively _spying_ as well as breaking and entering, but she wasn't. His creepier tendencies weren't exactly unknown to her. "Tell me you didn't break in and watch me sleep."

"Why in Eru's name would I do that?" he asked, and his bewilderment sounded genuine. "That sounds terribly dull."

That only made her laugh harder. "Thranduil, you are a bloody weirdo, and I love you," she said, sitting back to look up at him. "I've more to tell, and I'm sure you do, too, but I think we need wine first."

"You are likely right, Dilthen Ettelëa," he said. "Let me up, and I will get you very drunk."

"I'm already drunk," she pointed out.

"Then I will get you far more so."

* * *

There is, of course, much more they have to learn about one another, and they will, in time. Incidentally, Thranduil's lying: if Lorna left him now, he'd hunt her to the ends of the Earth. She would just never know it.

As for the next chapter…what tends to happen in the Ettelëa series, when these two get drunk? Yeah. Porn warning, y'all. They might not actually be able to do the do yet, but Thranduil's…creative.

Title means "Secrets" in Irish. As ever, your reviews keep the creativity flowing through my little brain. C'mon, guys. Let me know how I'm doing.


	23. Tubaiste

So, I said there was going to be porn, but I kind of lied. As I was writing, it occurred to me that even while shiftaced, Thranduil wouldn't want to take advantage of Lorna, or have her do anything she'd regret when she was sober. Given the argument they are going to have in this chapter, that's a good thing. In which Thranduil and Lorna don't quite jump each other's bones, have it out over his creepiness, and discover in short order that it's the least of their problems.

* * *

The wine had been intended to further loosen their tongues, but in Lorna's case, it made her want to do something very different with hers. She'd already been pretty buzzed to begin with, and watching the way Thranduil held his glass, the long line of his throat when he swallowed, was more than she could handle. She nearly upended her own glass when she set it on the end-table, and _did_ upend his when she all but tackled him. The metal goblet clanged when it hit the floor, the pungent scent of that very sweet wine joining the faint aroma of smoke.

Thranduil jumped a little in surprise, but his face was rosy with the effect of his own drink, and he gave her a slight smirk that was so wicked it did all sorts of squiggly things to her. He made no move at first to kiss her, but when she bent her head, he captured her mouth and kissed her so deeply it left her breathless. One hand slipped into her hair, cradling the back of her head, the other tracing her spine in a way that made her shiver. All the stalking in the world couldn't have told him just what she liked – that had to be pure instinct.

Lorna broke the kiss just long enough to draw a full breath, her fingers fumbling with the line of frustratingly tiny buttons even as she dove back for more, drinking him in with a greed that surprised even her. She'd been wanting to do this for nearly a week – she had no desire drag it out.

"Lorna," he groaned, when she finally allowed him to speak, "as much as I would love to take you over to that bed and make you forget your own name, you are very drunk. You told me you would not go to bed with me until we were married."

"I don't care," she said, nipping at his lower lip. She really didn't, either; her entire body was so consumed by base _need_ that her previous convictions meant approximately nothing.

That only earned her another groan, this one even more frustrated. "You will when you are sober," he said, catching her shoulders and sitting her up. He wasn't just putting her off because he was uninterested; the hardness beneath her right leg told her that he very much _was_. She had just enough sobriety left to wonder what he'd do if she slid her hand down his trousers.

"Thranduil," she said, as patiently as she was able, "I haven't properly got off since before the twins were born."

"That does not mean I ought to do anything about it yet," he said, arching an eyebrow. "I somehow doubt you would forgive me if I did, nor would I be able to comfortably live with myself." He drew her down for another kiss before she could respond, this one slow and almost drugging. "I will not take you until you are certain, Dilthen Ettelëa, and you are far too drunk to be certain of anything."

"You," she grumbled against his mouth, "are no fun."

Thranduil laughed, so quietly she felt it more than she heard it. "I can be very _fun_ , Lorna, but not until you ask it of me with a clear head. More wine will cool your ardor – and hopefully my own as well."

Lorna scowled at him a little, but she wasn't going to push him further if he was that determined. Instead she grabbed her glass and chugged the sweet liquid in three swallows. Maybe Thranduil would let her lick him in the morning, provided she didn't want to die of her morning-after.

He offered her the smirk again, though this one was rather less wicked. "Come here," he said, reaching for her. "Lie with me until you fall asleep. After that much wine, it will not take you long."

Somehow, she managed to fall over rather than lie down, crashing against his chest with a force that drove the breath from both of them. If she couldn't snog him, she could at least nuzzle him, and breathe in his scent like a complete creeper. And tomorrow, when she was sober, she'd prove she wasn't just trying to have it off with him because she was drunk.

* * *

When Lorna woke, she immediately regretted it.

She wasn't prone to morning-afters, but that wine was like nothing she'd ever tried before, and now her head felt someone had dropped a cinderblock on it, then filled it full of bees, and her mouth tasted like something had died in it a week ago. Peeing and brushing her teeth were imperative, but she was afraid that if she moved, her brain might leak out her ears. At some point, Thranduil had moved them to the bed, so at least she wasn't cramped from lying on a surface that was too narrow.

She was still in her shirt, but had evidently traded her trousers for pyjama pants at some point. Somewhere in her abused head were fuzzy images of her trying to climb Thranduil like a tree, but he'd put her off before it could go too far. Lorna was grateful for it now; whenever they did do that again, she'd rather they both be sober.

Thranduil was curled around her, so dead asleep that he didn't stir even when she turned to look at him.

Seeing him now unsettled her, and not just because of his fixed zombie stare. Some of the things he'd said last night didn't seem half so funny now that she was sober.

She'd known already he'd broken into her house, but she _hadn't_ known he'd gone lurking outside her window. What else had he done, that he'd not told her simply because she hadn't asked? She didn't think he'd kept anything from her deliberately, but he had no reason to bring it up of his own accord.

As to the rest of it…no, she'd had no desire to move to Dublin or anywhere else, but if she _had_ , he'd straight-up told her he would have stalked her. She couldn't put _that_ down to cultural differences and leave it there.

He said he knew better now, but did he really? If she ever did, for whatever reason, decide to leave him, how far would he follow her?

 _Anywhere_ , she thought, and it chilled her. He loved her, yes, but she was entirely certain he would never let her go.

Christ, that was terrifying.

Even though he obviously wasn't human, it was easy for her to forget just how alien he really was. And he had married her, by his standards, after exchanging a few dozen words. Married her, and not actually told her.

Lorna really didn't want to be thinking about any of this, but there was no way around it. She had no desire to leave, but it was rather horrifying to know that he essentially wouldn't let her if she did. Oh, he might not stop her, might not, as he put it, interfere, but he'd still _be_ there.

And she would never know where.

A shudder crawled up her spine, and she staggered off the bed and into the bathroom. She had to have a wee and brush the fuzz off her teeth before she followed _that_ train of thought any further. Something for her head would be great, too, but she wasn't about to wake Thranduil to ask for anything.

She only lit a single lamp, and even the light form that was almost too much. Getting the foul taste out of her mouth helped, as did washing her face. The sink actually had a tap, though the water was always cold, which made her think it drew off the brook topside. Once she'd emptied her bladder, she sat on the floor, resting her aching head against the cool stone of the cabinet, eyes shut.

She hadn't seen Thranduil between the day they met and the night he came into the pub, but that didn't mean he hadn't seen _her_. He'd told her outright he'd been lurking without a permit, hence how he knew where she worked, but she'd laughed it off. Just how often had he followed her? How often had he been lurking?

Lorna was pretty sure he'd tell her the truth if she asked him, but she wasn't certain she wanted to _know_ the truth. What with everything that was going on just then, they couldn't afford to get in a massive row, and massive it would be.

He had stalked her, met her, knocked her up, quite possibly stalked her _again_ , and had just admitted that he never would have stopped if she'd turned him away. Even through the sick, queasy thumping of her headache, through the ominous fluttering in her stomach, a wrath all too familiar stirred in her heart.

All of this was possibly down to the fact that he'd been a king for a few thousand years, and had just never learned better, but he'd damn well learn it now. She hauled herself to her feet and filled a glass of water, downing it in three long swallows and immediately pouring another. While she couldn't kill this morning-after so easily, she needed to at least fatally wound it before she had it out with Thranduil.

The rage helped – it always had made it easier for her to ignore her own physical pain. Endorphins, the prison counselor said. Whatever the reason, it was enough to propel her back to the bed, where she poked her protective, beautiful, caring, _utterly creepy_ not-husband awake.

"We need to talk," she said, watching him blink, annoyed at how hoarse her own voice was.

Thranduil winced in the lantern-light, rubbing a hand over his eyes. Some small part of her did feel bad for waking him, but it was a _small_ part. While she wasn't exactly looking forward to this, her blood boiled anyway.

 _Calm, Lorna_ , she ordered herself. Even knowing the wound that lay beneath is magical mask, he was still annoyingly perfect where he lay, his pale hair spread out almost like a corona on his pillow, entirely serene in his sleep. She wouldn't yell at him, but keeping her temper was not something she exactly had much practice with. She settled for poking him, none too gently.

Thranduil was visibly confused when he woke, but he went still when he saw her expression. She didn't doubt that he had no idea why she wore it, given his complete lack of awareness of how wrong his actions were.

"Lorna?" he said warily, sitting to face her.

The wrath burned hot as magma in her veins, but she kept a desperate leash on it. "You do not own me, Thranduil," she said, her voice remarkably even, if also very hoarse. "If I someday need or want to take a trip out of Lasgaelen, _you will not follow me_."

He froze. He sat so still anyway that the change was minute, but Lorna saw it. "I never said that I did."

Her hands clenched, nails biting into her fists. "No, but you've acted like it. You stalk me –"

"I've stopped that," he said.

"Only because you always know where I am when I'm not with you," she snapped. "I can't leave Lasgaelen right now for a number'v reasons, but can you _really_ say you'd not follow me if I could?"

Thranduil hesitated for a moment. "No," he said. "I could not."

Her eyes narrowed. His response was not a surprise, but it infuriated her anyway. "Let me get one thing through your head right now, Thranduil Oropherion – I don't care if you _are_ a king, you have _no right_ to hunt me like a damn animal. I've tried to put it out'v my mind all this time, but I can't do that anymore. I won't."

Something very like panic flashed through his pale eyes. Whatever else Thranduil might be, he was not a liar; he would not make her empty promises. "Lorna, do you trust me?" he asked, and though most would not have heard his hesitance, she did.

She too hesitated, for there was no simple answer. "I want to," she said slowly. "I know that you're doing everything in your power to keep us all safe, and that you'll keep doing it, come hell or high water. I know that you love me, but given your…methods, I question just how healthy that love really is. Just what else've you done, that you've not told me of?"

"Not much," he said, meeting her gaze steadily. "Yes, I have followed you; yes, I have, as you put it, lurked without a permit – but Lorna, you knew that. Why is it only now troubling you?"

She sighed, pacing, the floor cold beneath her bare feet. "It's troubled me some off and on for months now. That was _wrong_ , Thranduil, and though you say you understand that now, you also sit there and tell me you'd do it again if I left. I don't think you really _do_ get it." Christ, her head still felt like it was going to split in half. This wasn't like any morning-after headache she'd ever had before; something might as well have been squeezing her brain.

"Perhaps I do not," he said quietly, his voice entirely without inflection. "I will be perfectly honest with you, Lorna: the only reason I care at all is because _you_ care. If it did not bother you so, I would not stop."

Lorna winced, rubbing her temples. She supposed she ought to be grateful for that honesty, but part of her still wished he hadn't said it. "And you don't see anything wrong with that."

"No," he admitted, rising. Thank bloody God he'd kept his trousers on last night – she didn't need any distractions. "Sit," he added. "I will bring you something for your head."

She didn't want to sit, but she felt so sick that she did anyway, perching on the edge of the bed. Thranduil handed her a bottle of cut green glass, its contents smelling and tasting of cinnamon and vanilla. She downed half of it at one go, sighing with relief when it sent to work almost immediately. Her unsettled stomach calmed, the ache of dehydration draining from her muscles. The pain in her head, however, lingered – if anything, it had grown worse, stabbing just above her left eye. Lorna wasn't at all prone to migraines, but this felt like what she'd always heard them described as.

"Lorna?" Concern had overtaken the wariness in Thranduil's tone.

"It's nothing," she said, shutting her eyes. "My head still hurts like a bitch, is all. Thranduil, you need to learn why what you've done is wrong. I don't know how I'm to teach you that, but I've got to. You might not be human, but you need to understand us if you're to continue living with us." She rubbed her forehead, pressing the heel of her hand over her eye, as though doing so would actually do any good.

"Lorna…" He touched her cheek, and when she opened her eyes, she found his already fair skin had gone even paler, blatant worry in his eyes. "Lorna, there is something wrong with you. I do not say this to distract you – castigate me all you like later, but your head should not still pain you so. Not after that tonic."

She wondered just how bad she looked, for him to be that worried. "Haven't you got anything stronger?" She really didn't want to be derailed, but she didn't think he was deliberately trying to. "Or do Elves not get headaches?"

"Only when we are wounded," he said, his eyes traveling over her face. "I might have something, however. Stay –"

Blackness overtook her before he could finish the sentence.

* * *

Being berated so soon in the morning after a night of drinking was not how Thranduil preferred to wake, but he would prefer it – prefer _anything_ – to Lorna abruptly pitching gracelessly forward, limp as a corpse.

He caught her before she could hit the floor, panic spiking through him. Edain were so terribly fragile, but they rarely, so far as he knew, dropped dead for no reason at all. Mercifully, she was still breathing; when he laid a hand over her heart, its rhythm was sure and steady. She was simply unconscious, for whatever reason.

Carefully, he laid her back on the bed, brushing the tangled hair out of her face. Blood was leaking from her nose, bright and sluggish, and he had no idea at all what that _meant_. Was it dangerous? He still knew so very little of Edain bodies. Her skin was ashier than he had ever seen it, even when she was in labor with the twins, nearly bloodless.

He couldn't take her to the healers – he couldn't leave the twins alone, but neither could he carry all three of them. Thank Eru for the mobile black things Mairead had given them. Thranduil pulled Lorna's from the pocket of her coat, poking at it as he had seen her do. Though he could not read her language, he had learned basic use of it by the pictures alone. Mairead's number had a very small picture of her beside it, and he pressed the screen until he heard a ringing sound.

It went on far longer than he liked, though in reality it was less than thirty seconds. "Lord Thranduil, this is extremely bad timing," was her greeting, her voice strained. "We've a problem here."

"I have a problem _here_ ," he said, more harshly than he intended. "Something is wrong with Lorna. I need to take her to the healer, but I cannot leave the twins. You or someone must come and get them."

Momentary silence greeted that. "What's wrong with her?"

"She woke this morning with pain in her head," he said, running his fingers down the side of Lorna's face. "I had thought it the effect of all the wine, but it persisted and appeared to worsen even after I gave her a tonic against the effects. She abruptly lost consciousness, and now there is blood dripping from her nose."

"…Well, _shit_. I'll come, but like I said, there's trouble here, too. Whatever you did yesterday, I think it might've been more than you ought." Only she could sound so very disapproving even through distress.

"What are you talking about?"

"There's no point in me trying to explain," she said. "You'll see for yourself soon enough. I'll meet you in your place."

She hung up, and left Thranduil infuriated as well as afraid. He gathered up all of Lorna's things, wiping her nose with a clean sock before bundling her up. She didn't stir; her limbs remained pliant and inanimate as a doll's. Thankfully the twins still remained asleep, though they would need to be changed before her sister took them.

Thranduil went to them as soon as he had Lorna ready to travel, half afraid he would find them ill as well, but they looked as they always did, strong and healthy. If this was some malady, he prayed that their Eldar half would keep them safe.

* * *

Mairead had been watching the news all morning, shaking her head. She'd been afraid Lord Thranduil's interference would have consequences, and it would seem she'd been right.

All over Ireland, things were going to absolute hell – fires, minor floods, and, as of 10:13, an actual bloody _earthquake_ in Dublin. A proper one, too, seven point something on the Richter scale, which just didn't _happen_ in Ireland. Ever. Even small ones were bloody rare, and even more rarely centered in the island itself. This one had actually rattled the china even here in Lasgaelen.

So she watched, downing endless cups of tea, right up until she heard sirens in the village. It was such a rare sound that everyone inevitably turned up to see just what the hell was going on – and she'd been about to do just that when Lord Thranduil called. She'd never heard him so close to panic before, and she hoped she never would again, for it was just _wrong_. Mairead herself wasn't nearly as worried just yet; he likely had no experience with human morning-afters, and nosebleeds were hardly drastic in and of themselves. Alcohol itself was a blood-thinner, come to that.

Still, she shrugged into her coat anyway, stuffing her feet into her boots and hoping like hell nothing had gone too wrong in the village. She hadn't heard any explosions, so that had to be a good sign.

When she headed out into the morning sun, she found the air bracing, but not as frigid as it had been. Between melting and a herd of people stomping all over the fields, she shouldn't have much trouble getting over them in the Explorer; the thing was tall enough that she oughtn't get high-centered anywhere. No, she couldn't take it into the forest, but it saved having to haul two baby carriers all the way back to the house.

The engine roared when she started it, and she eyed the fuel gauge. She'd filled it up before coming back from Kildare, but God knew how long it was going to have to last, and Explorers weren't exactly known for their fuel efficiency. She'd do this to set Lord Thranduil's mind at ease, but after this, it was going to have to be emergencies only.

The snow on the fields was no longer remotely pristine – in addition to the blackened circles that had held last night's fires, there was practically a carpet of soggy firework leavings. Even with the windows shut, the smell of sulfur worked its way into the cab, and Mairead wrinkled her nose. While the SUV lurched along, it didn't actually manage to get stuck on anything.

She turned on the radio, fiddling with the dial until she found actual news.

"—no word so far on what's behind all this, but terrorism doesn't seem likely," a female DJ was saying. "Why disguise an act'v terror as mostly natural phenomena? The arson hasn't been used in any landmarks'v significance, and most'v the floods seem to be coming right out'v the  
ground, not utility lines. To say nothing'v the _earthquake_. I've not heard'v any weapon that could do that outside'v my kid brother's comics."

"We've no major fault lines, though," a man protested.

"I can't think'v any weapon that'd create one that wouldn't've leveled Dublin at the least," she retorted. "And sure, the government would've said if it was terrorism. There'd not be complete _silence_."

Mairead wondered how long it would take for some crackpot to cry, "Magic!" For once, the crackpots would be right. She'd say she hoped Lord Thranduil would be proud of himself, if she wasn't half afraid he _would_ be.

One of the DJ's apparently decided R.E.M.'s _It's the End of the World as We Know It_ was the appropriate theme tune, because it came blaring over through the speakers. Mairead shut the radio off, gliding the SUV to a halt at the edge of the forest. Whatever was going on, at least the government had more to concern itself with than little, out-of-the-way Lasgaelen now.

Enough people had trod through the forest that she didn't have a difficult time at all making her way through it, though the hike was still longer than her legs enjoyed. It was strange how disconnected this place felt from the outside world, no matter how many times she visited it – how it always seemed a touch warmer, even if that was some kind of illusion. The air in Lasgaelen was always fresh compared to any more urban areas, but in the forest it seemed as though it had never known a single pollutant.

It took longer to get there than Lord Thranduil would probably like, but if she was to hike back out lugging two baby carriers, she needed to have _some_ energy left. The snow squelched rather than squeaked now, sucking a little at her boots with every step – this was not going to be pleasant, and she hoped like hell that Lorna would be awake by the time she got there. If her bloody sister was capable of walking under her own steam, maybe Lord Thranduil could carry one of them.

The massive wooden door eased open as soon as she touched it, letting her into the incongruous warmth of his halls. Mairead had only been to his room once, but it wasn't terribly difficult to find, and it wasn't as though there was a crowd of people to get in her way. Even now, worried and irritated though she was, the vast silence pained her in a way she couldn't define. What she found when she reached Lord Thranduil's room, however, gave her pause.

He had all the lamps lit, the fire burning high, and the twins both neatly wrapped up and packed in their carriers. He himself was as impeccably dressed as always, a tunic of a red so deep it was nearly black – but his hair was ever so slightly mussed, and for once in his life, she could read him like a book.

He was terrified.

It wasn't blatant, no; someone who didn't know him might not have seen it, but there was in his pale eyes a fear she would not have thought him capable of. From what Mairead could see of Lorna, who lay on the sofa swathed in his black coat, her condition didn't bear out that worry; yes, she was unconscious, but her nose no longer bled, and there could be any number of reasons she was so thoroughly out. She hadn't had a great deal to eat last night, unless she'd eaten here; on top of a large amount of alcohol, it would be little wonder. Mairead was not one to panic prematurely, but Lord Thranduil, knowing so very little of human bodies, could be forgiven for it. This time, anyway.

"I'm sure she'll be fine," she said. "Doc Barry'll set her to rights. She might just need fluids. We dehydrate easily, us humans, and I'm sure she drank like a fish last night."

"She did," he said slowly, lifting Lorna off the sofa. She was entirely inert, completely dead weight, but she didn't look like she was about to choke, and her color, while pale, wasn't unduly so. She looked, well, rather like someone with a raging morning-after.

"Then she might well wake again and sick up all over your fancy robe…thing." Mairead shook her head, picking up the baby carriers. The twins had grown so much in so short a time that her back was going to ache like a bitch by the time they reached the Explorer. Lorna owed her for this, and she owed big-time.

* * *

So, you know how I said Thranduil and Big Jamie were going to regret wishing for a distraction? Yeah. They don't yet know just how much they'll regret it. In the M series, magic didn't turn up for another four years, but the M series didn't have Thranduil fucking with it. In the books, it cropped up worldwide overnight, but Thranduil didn't cough up quite enough to manage that now – all he managed to do was screw over Ireland, which is bad enough. And, rather like a plague, it will spread.

Why did Lorna keel over? If you've read _Ettelëa_ , you might have a good idea. If not, you shall see. Her conversation with Thranduil is not over, either – it's merely been postponed.

Title means "Disaster" in Irish. As ever, your reviews keep me going.


	24. Fáilte go hIfreann

In which everything goes to hell. Thranduil tries to help with a handbasket, but it goes to hell nonetheless.

* * *

Nuala was ready to choke someone.

Bad enough she'd woken with one hell of a morning-after – she hadn't needed their fifth prisoner trying to escape, banjaxing his leg in the process. She'd rang Doc Barry for help, only to find the doctor had evidently gone insane.

"I don't know if she's been drugged or what," her husband said, "but I'm bringing her in. She's not hit her head, but she says she's seeing lights – auras – around me and Old Orla."

Nuala wasn't exactly sure what _she_ was meant to do about it, but she promised she'd try, and hung up. She had no way to test for much of anything beyond marijuana, and Doc Barry wasn't that sort.

A siren wailed before she'd halfway assembled her testing kit – it had to be the village's lone fire truck, since she'd not called for an ambulance. If anybody was going to set something on fore, she'd have thought it would be last night.

With a sigh, she knocked their idiot prisoner out with a dose of morphine, and set about prepping a few rooms. Like as not she'd be dealing with nothing more than some surface burns, but it paid to be safe. She _hoped_ it wouldn't be more than that – she wasn't exactly qualified to deal with anything worse, and it sounded like Doc was away with the fairies. A &E wasn't an option with the village cut off; whatever happened would be down to her to deal with.

God bloody help her.

She went to look out the front window, and spotted a billow of black smoke coming from Fourth Avenue. A few people went running down the street – Old Orla and Young Orla, who'd probably been opening up the pub, as well as Dai and his da. Across the street, Molly stuck her head out the door to the Market. Up until Lord Thranduil made his presence known, so little happened in Lasgaelen that anything that _did_ wound up a spectator sport, and apparently old habits really did die hard.

It was Sveta who first arrived – a Sveta who was uninjured, but exasperated almost to the point of fury. Her white face was blotched with red, a storm brewing in her pale eyes as she brushed past Nuala.

"You can thank your Lord Thranduil for this," she said, shrugging off her green coat. "I do not know how many you will have in this village, but Ireland is a mess."

"What's happened?" Nuala asked, uncertain she wanted to know.

"Your Elf – his magic, it set off _something_ ," Sveta snapped. "Some of you are now some of us, and none of you can control it. Miranda is coming, God help us all."

Nuala had only met the woman once, but she echoed the sentiment. "You mean he's somehow _made_ some'v us have magic?" she asked. " _How?_ "

"If anyone knows the answer, it is not me," Sveta said, peeling off her gloves. "My guess is that even he does not. What he did shouldn't have been enough to cause this on its own."

"I'm sure Mairead'll call him, if she hasn't already. How – how many'v us in the village might…have it?"

"At least one, if that fire's any indication," Sveta snorted. "I will calm down whoever it is. With uncontrolled gifts, that is all that can be done at first – but I have never seen any that were _truly_ uncontrolled. This should not be possible. Either you're born with magic, or you are not."

"Then how does this Miranda know what this is?" Nuala asked, following her back to the exam rooms.

"They measured a spike in what little magical activity there normally is. More than what your Lord Thranduil ought to have managed. She said if he's somehow started some kind of cascade effect, she'll kill him."

Nuala would rather like to see _that_ duel. Granted, if this turned out to be an actual disaster, she'd probably help.

There was a small TV in the break room, one that might be near as old as Nuala herself. She hurried back to turn it on, wanting to catch a few precious moments before any patients arrived.

She got some reporter on ground level in Dublin – a reporter whose camera pointed at an appallingly dark sky. Never in all her life had she seen such clouds, and Ireland could get some spectacular squalls off the Irish Sea. They massed and churned with unnatural speed, the hue of a fresh bruise. Lightning forked silver veins among them, and _that_ was a surprise; thunderstorms were rare so close to the ocean, though not entirely unheard-of. Nuala was pretty sure none this dramatic had ever occurred in her lifetime – and never, to her knowledge, like this one, which didn't yet look to be producing a drop of rain.

"What in God's bloody name…."

"Weather-manipulator," Sveta said, coming up behind her. "I am sure of it. Without control, this is what they do. The fires must be pyrokinetics, and it would only take one terrakinetic to cause that earthquake. These people might not even know these things are their doing – and those that do will be terrified. I can't imagine what it would be like, to wake up with something you can't control. Something you might not even have believed in."

Nuala crossed herself out of pure habit, unable to tear her eyes from the screen. Wind was rendering whatever the reporter was trying to say incomprehensible. "How many would it take, to do that?" she asked. "How many weather people?"

"Depending on the strength of the gift, possibly just one," Sveta said, not a little grimly. "Some of us have very powerful abilities, but others can have very little. As I said, though, this shouldn't be possible. God knows what will happen to these people physically as a result."

 _That_ was a horrific thought, but not one Nuala could afford to ignore. "Lord Thranduil said that if everything ever went bad, we should call home all'v our people who've left. He said _something_ was coming – he just didn't think it would be so soon."

"I doubt he expected it to be his fault, either," Sveta said tartly.

Nuala heard the front door open, and went to confront the day's first casualty.

* * *

All right, now Mairead was getting a bit worried.

Lorna remained utterly dead weight, so deeply unconscious that she didn't stir the entire way to the SUV. Her nose started bleeding again halfway there, though only a little, and Mairead tried to convince Lord Thranduil that nosebleeds were not uncommon among humans, and usually not a big deal.

"It's only a bit," she said, loading the carriers into the SUV. Of course she hadn't got anything like car seats, but it was a short drive with no real obstacles, or so she hoped. "It'll stop on its own, trust me. We'll have her at the surgery in maybe ten minutes." It would have been less, if not for the snow, but she wasn't taking any chances with the twins in the car. Lord Thranduil sat in the back to hold onto them, while Lorna's inert form slumped in the passenger's seat.

A column of black smoke rose over the village, though Mairead couldn't see any flames – that would explain the siren, at least. Could it be seen, rising through the top of Lord Thranduil's enchantment? _That_ would look bloody weird.

Main Street, unsurprisingly, was swarmed – it looked like half the village had turned up, and most of them were likely in it for the street theater. She had to park the Explorer half a block away. Worryingly, a number were clustered around the surgery, and she hoped nobody had got themselves burned too badly.

They scattered like chickens when Lord Thranduil strode through, hauling Lorna as though she weighed nothing at all. Lucy bastard – Mairead's back and arms ached like a bitch, but she dragged the twins out and followed him. Amazingly, neither one had yet cried, though she didn't trust it to last.

A red-faced, very harassed Nuala met them in the waiting room, and paled at the sight. Mairead didn't wonder why – his expression was downright terrifying.

"She lost consciousness," he said, without preamble. "I do not know why. Her nose has done…that…intermittently since."

"Bring her here," Nuala ordered. "It's just me right now. Doc's lost her marbles."

 _That_ sent cold spiking through Mairead. "What does that mean?"

"She sees auras," Nuala said, leading the lot of them back to a room. "Sveta said it's a gift, like her people've got. Right now the poor woman's too distracted to be'v any use. Miranda's on her way with help, but since they've got to get here from some field in the middle'v County Carlow, it'll be a while. Here, set her down and I'll check her vitals," she told Lord Thranduil.

He did, as carefully as though he thought she'd shatter if he moved wrong. She looked worse than she'd had when Mairead first saw her – her face was outright grey now, ashy and bloodless.

Nuala stuck a thermometer in Lorna's ear, and sighed with relief when she checked it. "Well, she's not got a fever, at least. I'll set her up with some saline – see if we can't get her hydrated." She bustled out of the room for a moment, and Mairead set the twins on the two chairs crammed against the wall. This room was too bloody small, and would have been even if Lord Thranduil hadn't been approximately giant-sized.

They both stepped out of the way when Nuala returned, and Mairead was relieved to see that, ruffled though she was, it hadn't affected her efficiency. Once she had Lorna's IV set up, she checked her vitals, and frowned.

"What is it?" Lord Thranduil asked, watching them both with unnerving intensity.

"Well, her blood pressure's so low it's no wonder she passed out," Nuala said, unfastening the cuff. "It's hear heart rate that worries me. Her pulse is down to twenty-eight beats per minute."

"That's bad?" Mairead asked.

"It ought to be _impossible_ , given that her normal resting rate is about seventy per minute," Nuala said. "On the other hand, it's kept her nose from bleeding any worse – which is a bloody good thing, since we haven't got any viable plasma after the power cut."

"Can you do anything about it?" he demanded, an edge to his voice from him that made Mairead shuffle away from him as much as she was able.

"In here? No," Nuala said bitterly. "Though even if I had more equipment, there's not much to be done but keep her hydrated. Her heartbeat's slow, but it's steady – she's not fibrillating."

Lord Thranduil let out something very like a snarl. "Once upon a time, I could have cured her myself. I might have something that can help, though I do not know how well it will work after so very long. Mistress Mairead, I need you to drive me back to the forest."

His voice and his eyes were so cold that that was the last thing she wanted to do, but she hadn't got much choice.

"I'll keep an eye on the twins while you're gone," Nuala promised. "At this point, I'll take what I can get."

* * *

When Lorna woke, she had no idea how long she'd been out, but she felt like hell.

At first, she had no idea where she was; her fuzzy vision refused to focus until she had blinked a few times, and found herself confronted by the speckled ceiling tiles of the surgery. The mattress of the hospital bed was unfortunately hard, the scent of antiseptic so strong it was nauseating.

This much she registered, but nothing more, for her head was crammed with thoughts and images that made it impossible to focus on much of anything – a jumble of words and pictures without order or coherence. Had someone slipped her acid while she was out?

 _She saw fire – fire through Siobhan's eyes, coming from God only knew where, the stench of burning fabric all but overpowering. Confusion and utter terror squeezed at her heart, at_ Siobhan's _heart, as all that she touched went up in flames._

 _A flash of Big Jamie, scared and wracked with guilt, wondering if his wish for a distraction had brought this about. Young Orla, operating under a hazy idea that getting the children toward the fields would keep them safe; Kevin and Daniel, Dai's father, manhandling fire hoses that spat water still filled with uneven chunks of ice._

Lorna pressed her hands to her forehead, shutting her eyes, as though she expected that to actually do any good. The sluggish beeping of the heart monitor to her right sped up, and she let out a low, formless moan of inarticulate horror. It didn't hurt, precisely, and somehow that only made it worse; at least pain would have been a distraction.

Someone hurried into the room – Nuala, Nuala awash in panic she dared not show, even as she caught Lorna's wrists, drawing her hands away from her face.

"You gave us quite a scare," she said. "Don't do that again. You're going to be fine."

"My head," Lorna groaned, trying to curl into a ball. "Sure Christ, they're in my _head_ , get it _out_!" She didn't know what it was, or why they were in her head, and she didn't care. Finding her own thoughts amid so much chaos was all but impossible.

"Oh, motherfucker," Nuala breathed. "Sveta! Sveta, we might have another one!"

More footsteps, but calm, now, soothing as bam to a burn. It didn't make the nightmare stop, but the terror of it was less immediate.

"Look at me, Lorna," Sveta ordered, and Lorna did, because she couldn't think of what else to do. "Talk to me. Tell me what is wrong."

"My head," Lorna managed. "They're in my head. Not everyone, but so many. Siobhan, she's burnt her house down, and Mick, he's got roses everywhere, but he doesn't want anyone to know."

Sveta sucked a sharp breath, her sudden fear hitting Lorna like a brick to the gut. "Bogoroditsa , ne v etot," she said, looking away.

Unfortunately for Sveta, Lorna still remembered enough Russian to understand _that_. "Chto eto znachit? Vy ne mozhete mne pomoch', vy mozhete?"

The woman winced. "I did not say that. Once you are stable, we will send you back with your husband until we can find help. At least your mind will be quieter away from so many people."

"What's wrong with me?"

"It's telepathy," Sveta said gently, and Lorna's odd sense of calm deepened. "It is very rare, but we will find a way to help you."

Lorna's eyes narrowed. " _How_ rare?"

Sveta hesitated. "We have known of only one other in the last century, and he must never know of your existence. Fortunately, in this village, he never will. Rest now, Malyutka. I can't take away these thoughts, but I can take away the fear."

* * *

Once Lorna was essentially too stoned to care _what_ was going on around her, Sveta hauled Nuala to the break room, well away from Lorna's room.

"This is bad," she said. "The others, we have people who can train them, but not her. That husband of hers can try, but his magic is different. At the very least, he can build her a wall to keep others out."

"I don't know that he'd dare try," Nuala said. "Not after what's happened to some'v the others."

Sveta snorted. "He had better," she said darkly. "If he does not, she may well lose her mind."

Nuala frowned. If put that way, Lord Thranduil _might_ be a bit more willing. "If only he'd not gone and got her up the yard, none'v this would be happening," she sighed. "Why couldn't he just ask her for a date, like a normal person?"

"It would only have delayed things," Sveta pointed out, pouring herself a cup of tar-like coffee. "They would likely have had children sooner or later, and this would have happened anyway."

"I guess," Nuala said, grabbing a two-day-old donut. "Is this going to keep happening? Are we going to be looking at more and more people in the next few days?"

"I wish I knew," Sveta said. "Miranda has contingency plans for everything, though, no matter how unlikely. I would be very surprised if she didn't have one for this, impossible though it ought to be."

"I hope you're right," Nuala sighed.

* * *

Thranduil seethed as he strode through the forest. Hundreds of years ago, he could easily have taken care of Lorna – of all of them – but, like a fool, he'd let the athelas in the forest die out. He hadn't thought there would ever be any more need of it.

There were still things in the healing wards, but none of them were as effective, and all were so old that some might not be useful at all.

That Lorna's heart beat steadily was a boon, at least. While Nuala looked disturbed, she did not seem to believe Lorna would suddenly die without reason. His wife was in the best hands she could be, under the circumstances, and his children were safe with their aunt. It could be worse.

No sooner had he finished the thought than thunder cracked overhead, a blast of warm air gusting through the trees. It stirred his hair, tugging at his tunic, and he wondered what in Eru's name had gone wrong _now_. Never in all his life had he felt so much magic free-floating in the air, desperately seeking to ground itself.

What, exactly, had he truly done?

Yes, he had exerted magic in weaving his enchantment, but not _near_ enough to cause even a spike in the background magic of the world, let alone cause this. His actions might have been the catalyst, but they were not the cause. If he was sure of nothing else, he was sure of that.

When at last he reached the healing wards, he gathered all that he hoped might be useful. He would ask Miranda for aid in bringing the village's far-flung inhabitants home, where they would safely retreat to the caverns if necessary. Whatever else happened, he would keep his people safe.

At least Lorna trusted him to do that, he thought, as he packed glass bottles into a cushioned wooden box. He really should have seen of that coming, after all he had said, but he wasn't going to lie to her. He _had_ stalked her, and would have kept on if she had turned him away, but he failed to see how that was wrong. He had a duty to protect his children, even if she wanted nothing to do with him – and to protect her as well, since he had given her those children.

No, he didn't think it was wrong, but obviously she found it very much so, and likely wouldn't let the matter be until he understood her reasoning. She was a remarkably stubborn creature, when she wanted to be.

Stubborn enough that he trusted her to recover, with or without his intervention, but he was going to intervene all he could. At the very least, he could make this less unpleasant for her. Once she was well, she could berate him all she liked.

When he returned aboveground, the wind was howling, the trees creaking under the strain. Such a very warm wind, jarringly out-of-place for the depths of winter. Even Thranduil, who had some mastery over his own land, could not have done this. The magic tingled on his skin, alive and almost with a will of its own. It was seeking, but what, he did not know.

He'd never thought he would come to this, but he wished for Galadriel's counsel. While she had likely never seen anything like this before, either, she might have a better idea what to do. Or any idea at all. King though he was, he had never been counted among the Wise. Oh, an invitation to join the White Council had been issued, but since they didn't trust him with one of the Three, he hadn't bothered. No Ring for Thranduil Oropherion, cursed and tainted by dragonfire. No calling to Valinor, to Aman – he was unwanted.

If the Valar still watched this world, they had none but themselves to blame for what he did to it.

Another crack of thunder split the air, and with it a few drops of rain warm as bath water. If this turned into a deluge, they would wind up with a flood from all the melting snow. At least it would give the others outside yet another distraction.

He would see if Miranda would take his prisoners off his hands – prisoners who still needed breakfast, but he would deal with that later. One skipped meal wouldn't kill them. At this point, he might be able to simply release them. Eru knew there was little they could do that was worse than what was already going on.

* * *

Thranduil, you should know better than to think things like that. You really should.

Sveta says "Mother of God, not this" in Russian, and calls Lorna 'Little One'. Lorna's response is "What does that mean? You can't help me, can you?" Note: All my Russian comes from Google Translate.

Title means "Hell says hello" in Irish. As ever, your reviews are my (and this story's) lifeblood.


	25. Faigheann sé Níos measa

In which Ireland continues to go to hell, the villagers prepare to move in with Thranduil again, and Lorna enjoys his help a little too much.

Many thanks to Nirva on AO3, who made certain all the Russian spoken in this chapter actually made sense.

* * *

Siobhan, amazingly, had no actual burns to speak of. Her clothing was singed and charred in places, but her skin was undamaged. The only thing she'd suffered from was smoke inhalation, as had those who tried to save her house.

Currently she was occupying one of the infirmary beds, blitzed out on Sveta's empathic equivalent of marijuana, too calm to set fire to anything else. Likewise, Mick wasn't making any more greenery spontaneously grow.

It was only a stopgap measure, but it would hold until Miranda brought help. Once they were certain Lorna would stay stabilized, they were sending her back with Lord Thranduil, where she would at least be away from so many minds she couldn't shut out. It ought to work until he felt comfortable trying to build her a proper block.

Doc Barry seemed content to watch the news; when Nuala had the chance to see a bit herself, she found that things had only grown worse. A national emergency had been declared, for all the good it was doing. Most people really didn't seem to be doing this on purpose, and, of course, trying to arrest the more destructive ones was impossible.

But even the more benign of abilities were causing chaos. The screen showed an aerial view of the M7, currently covered over with creeping vines. A few people were trying to cut a path, to no avail; as soon as one was severed, two more took its place.

Even through her distraction, Nuala realized that the majority of these seemed to be nature-based – which, if this really was Lord Thranduil's fault, wasn't surprising. She doubted it was going to be producing many technopaths.

Thank God they had _theirs_ , or she wouldn't be able to see all of this. Unfortunately, all that foliage meant that Miranda and whoever she brought with her would have a hell of a time getting here.

"The Doors are stationary," Sveta had said. "They are where they want to be, and nothing we can do will move them. Miranda will find a way here."

Nuala hoped it wouldn't take _too_ long. Lord Thranduil had brought her a box of goodies, but she didn't know how to use any of them. It left her feeling rather superfluous.

She left to check on Lorna, and got a nasty surprise in what she found.

The woman's vitals _had_ been something close to normal, her olive skin no longer ashy. Now, though – he hadn't been in her room for five minutes, yet her pulse and her blood pressure had dropped back into the toilet, her pallor nearly that of a corpse.

" _Jesus_." Even as Nuala ran to check the machines, blood leaked from Lorna's nose, shockingly bright against the washed-out grey of her skin. Once again, she'd utterly lost consciousness, and even through Nuala's sudden panic, a thought occurred to her.

"It's you," she said, dragging out an oxygen canister. "Lord Thranduil, you've got to get out'v the room. She was fine after you left, but now you're back and _this_ happens."

The glare he bent on Nuala was nearly enough to make her piss herself. His pale eyes were like chips of ice, but there was nothing at all impassive about him now. For a moment, she was afraid he'd break her neck.

"It's telepathy," she said desperately, wiping Lorna's nose before affixing the mask. "She's got it, _you've_ got it, and this only seems to happen when you're near her, so don't _be_ near her." Nuala was rather surprised at the vehemence in her own voice – she hadn't intended it at all. "Go ask Sveta – maybe she knows why."

Lord Thranduil continued to glare at her with such ferocity that she shuddered, but a glance at Lorna got him moving. Hopefully the break room was far enough away that his influence, or whatever it was, would lift. If not, Nuala was going to have to kick him out of the clinic, and she didn't even want to guess what he would do then. She was bright enough to realize that Lorna was the only one out of all of them that he actually listened to, but Lorna needed to be able to speak first. God help all of them if this somehow killed her.

* * *

Thranduil burst into the tiny room with the equally tiny television, two seconds away from actual murder.

Its only occupant was Sveta, who regarded him with a surprising amount of equanimity. A measure of calm washed over him when he met her pale eyes, soothing his raging heart. She held a cup of that bitter sludge the Edain called coffee, and sipped it while he glared at her.

"Nuala said my mind is killing my wife," he said flatly.

"It's very possible," Sveta said, still calm. "How old are you, Lord Thranduil?"

"Somewhere around six thousand years," he said, pacing as much as the small room would let him. "Why?"

"Your wife has your six thousand years of memories bearing down upon her mind. It is little wonder hers cannot stand it. You need to build her a barrier – both to keep other thoughts from invading her mind, and to keep your own from destroying it."

He paused mid-step. "I will not risk damage to her."

Sveta rolled her eyes. "You do not need to go _into_ her mind," she said. "Just make a barrier around it. She has no way of making one herself, and we do not have anyone who can teach her. You are the only one who can do this."

She was so reasonable he had an irrational urge to strike her. Though of touching Lorna's mind was abhorrent, after what he had done to the two policemen. No, he would not be doing anything similar, but it still send a tendril of dread curling through him.

"Even if you leave her alone, if you stay away, the others will drive her insane," Sveta said. "I can keep her distracted for a time, but not forever. You can do this because you must." Her gaze was placid but unwavering.

"Not yet," he said. "She must recover, and I must be able to—"

His words were cut off when the entire building jerked, the floor momentarily dropping from beneath him. The lights flickered, the table migrating across the room with a screech of metal upon tile, and his stomach apparently wanted to join it.

Sveta tried to brace herself against the wall, only for it to crack beneath her hand, a fissure the width of her thumb splitting the faded yellow paper.

Thranduil caught the television before it could hit the floor. He had weathered many earthquakes before he came to Eire, but this one felt unnatural. The earth was being twisted by forces beyond its control – twisted so violently that he suspected the cause lived somewhere in the village.

It went on for nearly a minute, while Sveta swore – for it could only be swearing – in a language he did not understand.

A number were swearing in English, too - swearing, and screaming. As soon as the earth was somewhat steady beneath his feet, he ran to check on Lorna, and wondered where in Eru's name Mairead had taken his children.

Lorna was groggy but unhurt, and he left before he could do her any more harm. _How_ had he wrought this? It could not possibly be his doing alone. Perhaps he had merely been the match to what the Edain called gunpowder, some store that none of them had known existed. He didn't want to think about what might happen if this kept on as it was.

The stone of the road was cracked in places, several of the poles that held the power lines tilted at drunken angles. Mairead's vehicle was still parked outside; hopefully she had gone to the pub.

Several people he was only passingly acquainted with ran past, fleeing the thunderheads that bore down upon the village like a curse given form. Even Thranduil had forgotten just how much elemental _power_ this world had, power quite apart from magic, and now the two were combining into something uncontrollable.

He had promised he would not destroy this island, but he was afraid that he had, all unwitting, broken that promise. Edain seemed to be, by and large, silly creatures, their lives both narrow and swiftly over, but they did not deserve this. Cold though he could be, he was not heartless; yes, they died easily, but the thought that he had surely hastened more than a few of their deaths was not one he could bear just yet.

Instead he hurried to the pub, and was unspeakably relieved to find Mairead and both twins under the table. She looked ready to murder someone, and he was rather worried that it might be him.

"There is little point, Mistress Mairead," he said, before she could speak. "There is nothing I can do about it myself."

"I don't suppose you know how long this'll _last_ , do you?" she asked, crawling out from under the table.

"I do not, but I suspect Miranda might, whenever she arrives."

"She'd better. This isn't America or Japan – our buildings aren't made to withstand real earthquakes." She hauled the twins out from under the table, setting the carriers atop it. Incredibly, both seemed curious rather than frightened. "I think the mobile network's down – I can't reach Kevin."

"My halls can withstand anything," Thranduil said. "If this does not cease soon, you should all come with me again. I'm certain the technopaths can find a way to make your technology still function there."

"We'd need half the car batteries in town," Shivshankari said, crawling out from under another table. "We cannot just call it up out of nowhere. And you can forget the internet, unless it's on your phone."

"I thought you lot could do anything," Mairead said, brushing dust off her sleeves.

Damodara snorted. "If only. Magic can be convenient, but only up to a point. We can set your car batteries onto a regenerative cycle, but it would take more work and far more supplies."

Depending on how long this went on, that might be necessary – but then, if this kept on as it was, it was only a matter of time before Eire tore itself apart.

"We will do what we must," Thranduil said. "I think it wise that all of you gather your things together, just in case. I do not like the thought of any of you sleeping in such flimsy constructions."

"Oi, what're you calling flimsy?" Big Jamie demanded.

Thranduil arched an eyebrow. "Master Jamie, I live in a cavern as old as this island. Compared to that, _everything_ is flimsy."

"Fair point. How much can we bring?"

"However much you feel like hauling through two miles of forest," Thranduil said dryly. "I could fit your village and everything in it ten times over, with room to spare."

A small aftershock shuddered through the floor. "I'll get Orla and the kids to gather some stuff," Big Jamie said. "We can haul it on the pallet-truck. Never thought I'd say this, but I'd feel safer underground."

"Sure Christ, we'll never carry all we need," Mairead sighed. "It'll be three trips at least."

"Old Sandy's got a tractor," Jamie said, pulling an empty cardboard box out from under the bar.

" _No_. I will not have my forest torn up by your machinery," Thranduil said. "Nothing has ever done so, and nothing is going to start now." There were likely few places on this island that remained truly pristine, and he would not profane his land any more than necessary.

Getting ready to move would give them all something to do until Miranda arrived. He would build Lorna a shield as best he was able, and hope that it actually worked. In theory, it should not be difficult, but neither should minorly altering an Edain memory, and look at the mess he had made of _that_.

He glanced down at Nenya, gleaming on his right index finger. He'd had to re-size it when he took possession of it, though he seldom wore it. Perhaps it would aid him in his precision. At the very least, it couldn't hurt. He knew that he could do nothing until Lorna was stabilized, which galled him far more than he liked. Helplessness was not a thing he was accustomed to, and he did not intend to be so for long.

* * *

Miranda, Julifer, and their motorcycles stepped out into the field near Wicklow.

The Doors were invisible to the outside eye, and it was always a crapshoot as to whether or not anyone would see someone leaving one. That was not a worry right _now_ , however; Miranda doubted anyone would notice from even a dozen yard away.

The scent of smoke drifted on the slight, incongruously warm breeze – the scent of burning wood and burning rubber, which was far less pleasant. Even from here, she could see a massive structure fire in Wicklow, flames licking at the storm-dark sky.

Less obvious, perceptible only to the Gifted, was the tingle of magic, far more than she had ever felt in her life. It was out and it was running free, wild and far beyond any hope of containment.

Damn Lord Thranduil to whatever hell might exist.

She kick-started her motorcycle and took off across the field, Julifer beside her. Angry as Miranda was at the damn Elf, she knew there was no way this was wholly his fault – what she _didn't_ know was what the hell else was at work. She was rarely blindsided, but she hadn't seen this coming at all.

The DMA had ways of soaking up excess magic, of making sure this kind of thing didn't happen, and none of them were working. She'd kept tabs on the few Gifted who lived wholly outside the DMA – all save Von Ratched, who they could rarely find, and who never lingered long once they had.

Even if he'd been capable of doing this, which he patently wasn't, he wouldn't. The bastard detested disorder of any kind – but that probably wouldn't stop him coming here to investigate. His curiosity would probably compel him, though at least for now he'd have a hell of a time getting into the country.

No, it wasn't him, or any of the other Gifted, but was Lord Thranduil _really_ the only Elf left? Oh, he said he'd know if there were others, but it was a big world, and some of the DMA's sparse records indicated that not all Elves had been benevolent.

Not knowing drove her mad – though not as mad as the clogged motorway she and Julifer shortly reached. Some chloropath had evidently been hard at work, likely without meaning to; a net of morning-glories stretched clear across the road, a tangle some two stories high. Getting to Lasgaelen was going to take time they didn't have.

* * *

Lorna woke to a minor earthquake, and had to claw the oxygen mask off her face so she could sick up off the side of the bed. The sound of her vomit splattering on the tile only made her do it again.

"Fuck my life," she groaned, spitting bile. She needed a glass of water, but that would involve hauling her sorry carcass off the bed.

How long had she been unconscious, and just what the hell had happened while she'd been out? Aside from a bloody earthquake. She considered shouting for someone, but decided it was too much effort. Sooner or later somebody would come in to make sure she wasn't dead.

Christ, her head still hurt. It wasn't like any other headache she'd ever had – it felt like her brain was pulsing, like something spiky had lodged itself in the center and was now trying to claw its way free. Some kind of heavy-duty opiate had dulled it, but it was still a little too _there_.

So were the thoughts that weren't hers, but they seemed a step removed from her, lacking the terrifying urgency of earlier. It was more like being on some heavy-duty drugs, and God knew she had enough experience with _those._

 _It's the end of the world as we know it_ , she thought. _I wish I felt fine._ Where were Thranduil and the twins? She didn't doubt he'd got them somewhere safe, at least. For all his creepy lack of boundaries in some ways, there were other things she knew she could depend on him for. That conversation wasn't over, but like hell did she want to continue it right now. That could happen once she was sure it actually _wasn't_ the end of the world.

Sveta came striding in, wrinkling her nose at the smell. "Ty zakonchila?" she asked, forcing Lorna to actually have to think to come up with a response. She was pretty sure she'd just been asked if she was done sicking up.

"I think so," she said. "I hope so."

Sveta's eyes narrowed. "In Russian," she said. "You need to practice. Your accent is atrocious."

Lorna racked her brain. "Dumaju, da. Nadejus'," she said carefully, though there wasn't much point; her Irish accent persisted no matter what language she spoke. "V tjur'me vyuchila. I mnogo let ne razgovarivala."

"Well, you will have time to learn. God knows we'll probably be stuck for a while."

Given that Thranduil still wanted her to learn Sindarin, it was a damn good thing she had an ear for languages. Still, she was likely to mix them up, at least at first.

Why was she thinking about something so trivial? But then, the thoughts weren't only hers; some of them had to be Sveta's, for they were in Russian.

Christ, her head hurt.

It must have been obvious, for Sveta said, "Your husband will come and build you a block, to keep everyone else out of your head."

Lorna didn't bother saying Thranduil wasn't actually her husband. He pretty much was, ceremony or no ceremony, no matter how creepy he could be. At the moment, that hardly mattered. "Where _is_ he?"

"Telling everyone to gather their things to move underground with him. Until these earthquakes stop, it's not safe to stay here."

"Earth _quakes_?" Lorna asked, struggling to sit up. "Plural?"

"You have missed much, during your nap," Sveta said, shaking her head as she went to the sink, filling a plastic cup with some water. "If we had had any idea what your Lord Thranduil's magic would do, we would have just relocated you all until your government could be dealt with."

Lorna took the glass from her, washing her mouth out and leaning over to spit in the sink before taking an actual drink. "You wouldn't have been able to shift most'v us," she said. "Most'v them have lived their whole lives in Lasgaelen. I'm not sure they'd leave for anything short'v nuclear war – and there's a few I'd wonder about even then." It was a point of pride with Old Orla, that she'd only left Lasgaelen once in her entire life. The villagers had been strangely territorial even before Thranduil actively entered their lives; yes, there were many that had moved away once they reached adulthood, but those that stayed were stuck like barnacles.

"They ought to be ready for it anyway," Sveta said. "We have no way of knowing yet just what is coming."

Thranduil appeared in the doorway before she could say anything more – a Thranduil who, while a touch paler than normal, was in enviably full possession of himself. Exasperating and unsettling as he could be, Lorna really did love him, and she couldn't help but smile a little now.

"Sveta believes I might be able to help you," he said. "You must remain as calm as you can, under the circumstances, but I need not go into your mind – I simply must touch it."

"I'll leave you to it," Sveta said, squeezing past him. Lorna only half registered her leaving, because Thranduil's plan disturbed her immensely.

"It will not harm you, Dilthen Ettelëa," he assured her, or tried to. Hard as he was to read, he didn't sound entirely sure himself. But then, how could be he – she doubted he'd ever done anything like it before.

She drew a deep breath, trying to orient herself. She knew that Thranduil would never hurt her – that he wouldn't be doing this if he truly thought it might do her any lasting harm. "Okay," she said, "hit me."

The look he gave her was absolutely appalled. " _What?_ "

"It's a figure'v speech. It means 'let's get this over with'."

He still looked disconcerted, but he stepped forward and laid his cool hands on either side of her face. "Be still," he said. "This might feel peculiar, but it should not hurt."

 _I hope not_ , she thought, and tried to do as instructed, distracting herself by trying to call up all the Russian she remembered. She had a feeling Sveta was serious about teaching her how to speak it properly – and hell, maybe she could actually learn how to read it. Raisa had tried to teach her, but she'd been utterly hopeless at it. At least Irish, Welsh, and English all had roughly the same alphabet; when confronted with something so totally different, her brain had promptly locked up. It didn't help that her spelling in the other three languages was abysmal to begin with.

Thranduil was right – quite abruptly her head felt…odd. It wasn't painful, but it was like nothing she had ever before known: a strange sort of pressure, though not unpleasant. It sent a feeling of warmth through her, soothing her unsettled stomach and loosening the tension in her limbs. In fact, it was making her tingle in rather inappropriate places, and she wondered just what the hell he was doing. She didn't want to break his concentration to ask, and it wasn't like she was _complaining._

Her eyes drifted shut, that warmth coiling and solidifying in her core. Now was not the time or place to be having a wank, but it was tempting. A little _too_ tempting. She tried not to squirm in her seat as the sensation grew and strengthened, entirely without physical contact save his hands on her skin.

She moaned before she could help it, and Thranduil's fingers twitched against her face. "Keep going," she said. "You're right – this doesn't _hurt_ at all."

"I did not realize you were so very starved, Dilthen Ettelëa," he snorted. "Nor did I expect _this_ side-effect."

"I'll take what I can get. Now keep on."

"I suppose it is just as well you are enjoying this," he said dryly. The heat rose yet further, blanking out everyone else's unwelcome thoughts.

Lorna gave up trying to sit still, and she didn't need to look at Thranduil to know he was as amused as he dared to be. He could smirk all he liked, provided he didn't stop doing what he was – _oh_. She wasn't quite sure just what sound left her throat, but it was probably embarrassing. She didn't know if there was an actual earthquake or just one in her pants, and she didn't care. This was everything she'd been trying and failing to give herself for _months_.

When she opened her eyes, she found that Thranduil was indeed smirking. "I believe your people have a saying," he said, running his hands through her tangled hair. "Was it good for you?"

Lorna thwacked him in the ribs. "Yes, and you know it. Let's get the twins, some stuff, and get out'v here before the whole bloody village collapses."

* * *

Nice, Thranduil. Very nice. At least _somebody_ is enjoying themselves.

Ty zakonchila? = Are you done yet?  
Dumaju, da. Nadejus'. = I think so. I hope so.  
V tjur'me vyuchila. I mnogo let ne razgovarivala. = I learned in prison. I have not spoken it in years.

Title means "It gets worse" in Irish. As ever, your reviews fill me with hope.


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